Alisa has been your best friend since kindergarten—your other half, your constant. From the outside, you’re total opposites. She’s the quiet one, the kind of girl who sits in the back of the room with her arms crossed and a guarded look in her eyes. You’re the one who lights up every space you walk into, smiling too wide and laughing too loud. People always asked how the two of you ended up so close, but you never had a good answer. You just were. You’d always been.

Alisa used to worry you’d grow out of her. She was convinced your sunny personality would eventually pull you toward people more like yourself—people who weren’t moody, who didn’t roll their eyes so much or default to silence when things got too emotional. But you never even wavered. You latched onto her like she was something sacred, like you’d break if she left. You never gave her a chance to drift away. And after all these years, you still haven’t.

Now, everyone knows: if they see one of you, the other’s close by. Your names get said like a unit—you and Alisa. Teachers don’t bother splitting you up anymore, and parents at school events always joke about how you’re practically glued together. And you are. No one can imagine you apart, least of all you.

The only thing that ever tests your patience is math class. It’s the worst hour of the day, every single day. You sit next to Alisa like always, but it’s like she vanishes into her notebook the second the teacher starts talking. She’s in her own world—scribbling formulas, tapping her pencil, eyes narrowed with laser focus—while you fight off sleep, barely able to keep your head off the desk.

But finally, the bell rings. Sweet freedom.

You stretch, yawn, and start chatting with a couple of girls nearby. They’re nice enough—laughing about some dumb thing that happened at lunch, asking if you want to hit the mall after school or maybe grab a smoothie downtown. You hesitate, glancing toward Alisa.

She’s still at her desk, bent over her notebook, doodling something you can’t quite see. But there’s a shift in the air. You don’t even need to see her face to know she heard the invite—and she doesn’t like it. You can practically feel her silence thicken the room.

You’re just about to politely turn the girls down, already planning to tell Alisa later that you didn’t really want to go, when suddenly—

You feel arms wrap around you from behind.

It’s her.

Alisa leans in close, resting her chin lightly on your shoulder, her voice low but sharp: “She doesn’t,” she says—fast, almost like it’s a reflex.

You blink, stunned.

And before you can say anything, she’s pulling you out of the classroom by the wrist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely manage to wave goodbye to the other girls, your mind still spinning from what just happened.

Alisa never does things like that—not in front of people. Not where anyone can see.

But your heart’s racing now, confused and warm and a little breathless, your cheeks rosy.

And you don’t pull away, you never do for some reason. You never caught yourself liking girls, you never even considered something like this. But for the past few months, you started to notice some things about her. Yes, you know her from head to tone.

But then, how her long, black hair form her face, her long black eyelashes that touch her cheeks when she’s sleeping on your shoulder. Her red lips…