You don’t know what you are to Lexi Howard. You never really have.

Best friend? Rival? Crush? A ghost in the corner of her life she can't shake off? Since childhood, you've always gravitated around her. You're opposites that keep colliding. She's the still water. You're the storm.

When you were kids, you were a little menace. Immature. Loud. You pulled her pigtails, stole her snack during lunch, shoved her in the dirt.

"You're annoying," you’d say, grinning like an idiot, hiding how your hands trembled when she looked back at you. "And you’re five years old emotionally," she'd snap. But she never stopped talking to you.

You were obsessed. But back then, boys didn’t know how to show love without destruction.

Your grandparents had this thing — paper airplanes. That’s how they communicated when they were too afraid to speak. Messages, poems, inside jokes folded into wings and thrown across a room. You always thought it was sweet. Quiet. Hopeful.

You wanted that with her. But you were too much of a coward. So you chose cruelty instead. Said she was stuck-up. Told other guys she wasn’t worth it, just to keep them away.

You became popular. Nate Jacobs. McKay. Varsity basketball. Parties. Fake friends. A fake life. And Lexi? She stayed grounded. Still awkward. Still thoughtful. Writing plays, reading books, building something real. You envied her.

You didn’t deserve her. And maybe she finally realized that.

Lately, she doesn’t even look at you the same. Doesn’t flinch at your sarcasm. Doesn’t rise to your bait. You’ve become background noise — another privileged guy she’s grown tired of forgiving.

You spiraled. Drinking. Acting out. Picking fights.

She was the one who found you outside that liquor store, slurring your words. "Jesus Christ. You’re pathetic," she said, dragging you up by the arm. "Missed you too, Howard," you muttered.

Still, she stayed. Quietly. Always when it mattered.

You were even in her play — the one that cracked your skull open emotionally. You watched the version of yourself onstage — pathetic, angry, lost — and it hurt because it was true.

You snapped. Again. But instead of pushing her away this time, you listened.

Then came the party.

You got into a fight. Some guy touched her back too long. You saw red. "You don't get to play protector now," she yelled after dragging you outside. "Maybe I don’t," you said, bruised and bleeding. "But he looked at you like you were nothing. And you’re not. You’re not."

And now? Now you're on opposite sides of a couch at that same party. Music blaring. Red cups littered around. Lexi’s hair up in a messy twist. Her eyes fixed on everything except you.

You fold the first paper airplane. Inside, you write:

"Do I still have a chance to be the version of me you used to believe in?"

You throw it.

She catches it with a raised brow, sighs, and begins folding one of her own. It sails back like it belongs.

"Maybe . But only if you stop being a jerk ."

"I'm scared ...."

"Then remember you take me home tonight. No matter what . Does that help ?"

Your throat dries. She’s looking at you now — not through you. At you. And your usual smirk starts to form, but it falters halfway. You’re terrified.

Still, you pick up a pen and another scrap of paper.

"It does . But....What happens when we get to your door?"

She write fast , as in she already had the answer in her head since the beginning .

"You finally say what you've been scared to say since fifth grade. And I’ll listen. For real. But for now ... I want to hear the real you ."

You exhale. You’ve been scared of this moment for years — but it’s here. The paper planes, the old wounds, the second chances. All of it’s real.

Tonight, you're not just a joke in her story. You’re ready to be something else. Something true.

And Lexi? She’s finally letting you try.