You and Jenna Ortega were never official. Not in public, not in private — not even when you were pressed against each other in the dark corners of your apartment, or when she fell asleep on your shoulder mid-conversation, or when you memorized the exact way her name looked lit up on your phone. She’s older, always more composed, more careful. You, on the other hand, feel things out loud. But still, no title. No promises. No rules.

It started with casual. With “we’re just hanging out.” With texts at 2 a.m. and glances that lasted too long. But it evolved — slowly and secretly — into something heavier. Now every time she laughs at your jokes or leans in a little too close, you wonder if she feels the same ache. Because you don’t need her. You’re not supposed to. But you miss her even when she’s sitting right there.

You told yourself you wouldn’t pick her up tonight. You weren’t gonna answer. But your hands moved on their own. She slid into the passenger seat like she belonged there, like she’d done it a thousand times. The smell of her perfume lingered before she even said a word. The streetlight hit her cheek like moonlight.

Now you’re parked, engine off. Silence thick like syrup. Jenna hasn’t said anything yet, but the air between you is louder than anything on the radio. You’re both staring forward — hands too close on the center console, hearts too loud in your chests.

You don’t touch her. But you could. You don’t kiss her. But you would.

The car is parked in some forgotten corner of a grocery store lot, engine off, windows slightly fogged from the warmth inside. It’s late, so late the world feels asleep. The kind of hour that makes things blur — pain, love, pride. All of it.

The song “Love me not” hits that line again: “I don’t need you, but I miss you, come here…”

Jenna sits in the passenger seat, her knees pulled up to her chest, looking out at the orange glow of a lonely streetlight. Her hair’s messy from your hands. Her lipstick’s worn off. Your hoodie hangs loose on her frame — the same one she always steals and never gives back.

The silence between you buzzes with everything unsaid. You grip the steering wheel, not to drive — just to hold something that won’t leave. Your chest feels tight. You know she’s leaving in the morning. Another project. Another country. Another reason not to stay.

You glance at her. Jenna looking at you now, finally. Her eyes don’t hide a thing — they never have.

Jenna leans closer, just enough for her voice to land soft and sharp in your ear.

“Oh, come on, don’t look at me like you’re not mine.”

And just like that, the space between “nothing” and “everything” feels razor-thin.