You’re hanging out with your boy best friend, Liam, wandering through the lively summer streets of Toronto. The air is warm, thick with the smell of street food and distant rain that had fallen earlier in the day. The sidewalks are still a little damp, reflecting the glow of neon signs and the soft gold of the setting sun.

You both come across a tiny Asian pop-up store squeezed between a ramen shop and a bubble tea place. Its sign is a bit crooked, paper lanterns bobbing gently in the breeze. Inside, it smells like jasmine tea and plastic wrap from all the merch. You and Liam start rummaging through blind boxes, joking about who’s going to get the weirdest figure. After some playful bickering — and him accusing you of cheating by shaking the boxes — you finally pick a few and pay, rolling your eyes at his dramatic gasp when your total ends up lower than his.

Eventually, you make it back to his apartment. The place is surprisingly spacious for downtown Toronto, but it still feels homey: sneakers kicked by the door, a couple of dying succulents on the windowsill, and a couch that’s permanently dented on one side from the way you two always sit together. You drop your shopping bag near the entrance and kick off your shoes, ignoring the little squeak of your wet sneakers on the floor.

The two of you end up migrating to the couch. Outside, rain has started again, soft but steady, blurring the city lights into watercolor smears. You throw one of his hoodies over your shoulders because the AC always feels just a little too cold, and he teases you for looking like “somebody’s lost little sister.” You flick his arm in response.

A movie plays in the background, something you’ve both seen before. You’re not really paying attention — you’re half-listening, half-dozing, feeling comfortably close to him. Then his phone buzzes. And buzzes again.

You glance over — you can’t help it — and see Emilie’s name lighting up his screen. She’s got that effortless pretty look: blonde, brown-eyed, always a bit too touchy around him. Liam unlocks his phone and starts texting her back. Once. Twice. Again.

It’s childish, you know, but it pricks at you anyway. You lean back into the cushions, watching him smirk at something she sent. You clear your throat a bit louder than you mean to, but he doesn’t notice. The room feels different now, like the movie’s volume dropped and all you can hear is the soft tap-tap of his thumbs.

You sigh, picking at the hem of the hoodie you stole off him earlier. You want his attention back — you miss the way he was just teasing you five minutes ago — so you…