He turns first, his shoulders squared with a stiffness I haven’t seen before. Each step he takes away from me forms a tiny crack in my defenses. Why does this hurt so much when I’m the one pushing him away?
I should feel relieved. This is what I wanted, right? Distance. Safety. But the knot in my throat suggests otherwise. Before he can disappear around the corner and maybe look back, I force myself to turn and walk in the opposite direction.
What if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?
No. It’s for the best. People like us don’t mix. We never have. We never will.
Chapter 11
I’m sprawled in my new bed, feet dangling from the edge of the mattress as I stare at the ceiling, thinking about what Chrissy said how she’s trying her best to be invisible. Our argument plays on repeat in my head, and regret grips me every time I reach the part where I said there’s nothing more to say. I roll onto my side, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape, but it’s not helping.
Maybe she’s right—I shouldn’t have told everyone about our living situation. I wanted to show her she shouldn’t hide who she is, but I only made things harder for her. Guilt twists my insides. The last thing I wanted was to add to her problems.
With a frustrated groan, I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold against my bare feet as I stand and begin to pace the small confines of my room.
My thoughts take me back to when we were kids, the endless summer days at the lake house where we’d chase each other through the woods or jump off the old dock to see who could hold their breath the longest under water. I can almost smell thesunscreen our parents smeared all over us and lake water, feel the warm planks of the dock beneath my feet. Chrissy always had this fearless laugh that I couldn’t get enough of. She’d challenge me to ridiculous contests—who could make the biggest splash, who could find the weirdest-shaped rock, who could eat the most peanut butter sandwiches without drinking water.
If I remember correctly, it was in middle school that Chrissy started withdrawing. The spring semester of third grade, something shifted. She became different, quieter. I rub my temples, trying to recall what might have happened. Was it when that mean girl Brittany made fun of her swimsuit? Or when she got braces and that idiot Jake called her “metal mouth” for an entire semester?
Her playful confidence dissolved, exposing this self-conscious version of the girl I once knew. One day she was climbing trees and racing me to the end of the block, and the next she was hiding in oversized hoodies and avoiding eye contact. The transformation wasn’t overnight, but looking back, it feels that way—like someone dimmed her light one notch at a time until she learned to hide in the shadows.
I stop pacing and press my forehead against the cool window. My breath fogs the pane as I exhale slowly. I wanted to help, but maybe I’m the one who needs to change my approach. Forcing her into the spotlight clearly wasn’t the greatest of my ideas.
My heart gives a heavy thud. What if I’ve made things worse between us? I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.
A faint beat of music coming from my half-way open door pulls me from my reflection. Is that . . . Korean? My ears perk up, and I tilt my head like a confused puppy. The rhythm is catchy—all synth and bass with what sounds like K-pop lyrics floating through the air. The music comes from Chrissy’s room.
Curiosity wins, as it always does with me. I tiptoe down the hall, instinctively dancing around the creaky spots on the floor which I still remember from countless sleepovers here. Muscle memory is wild. Seems like ages ago that we’d stay up watching scary movies and eating microwave popcorn until our stomachs hurt. I pause outside her door, pushing it open just enough to peek through, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.
Chrissy’s dancing, completely lost in the rhythm. She’s wearing black leggings and a crop top that reveals her belly button. The lamplight catches the sheen of sweat on her collarbone. My mouth goes dry, and my pulse takes off like a Bugatti Chiron Super Sport 300+—I’ve never seen her like this before. Where did she learn to move like that?
Heat flushes my face as I watch, unable to look away. This isn’t the Chrissy I know—the girl who hunches her shoulders and disappears inside hoodies two sizes too big. This is someone else entirely—someone confident, electric.
Who knew all those baggy clothes were hiding someone this . . . sexy. And those choreographed, provocative moves—I fan my shirt like someone turned up the thermostat to ninety.
My weight shifts slightly, and the floorboard beneath me gives a subtle creak. I freeze, but she doesn’t hear it over themusic. Safe for now. How would I even explain standing here watching her like some Peeping Tom?
But I can’t make myself walk away, either. There’s something magnetic about seeing her like this—unfiltered, unafraid. The secret version of Chrissy that nobody at school gets to see. Except me.
Have I been blind this whole time? The girl dancing in this room isn’t just my childhood friend—she’s beautiful in a way I never allowed myself to notice before.
“What are you doing?” A small voice sounds from behind me, and I turn. Chrissy’s little brother, Noah, is staring up at me with wide eyes.
“I’m just—“ The music stops, and Chrissy rushes to the door. Is that panic in her eyes? Anger? Both? She slams it shut in my face before I can utter a single word of apology.
Shoot.
Noah zooms back down the hall, laughing. Little rugrat.
Now I’ve done it.
The wooden door between us might as well be concrete for all the distance it suddenly creates. My hand hovers in midair, uncertain whether to knock or retreat. The thundering of my heartbeat fills my ears as I imagine her on the other side—maybe pacing the floor, maybe curled up in embarrassment, or maybe plotting how to murder me in my sleep.
What if she never speaks to me again? What if this ruins years of friendship because I couldn’t look away?
She already knows I’m here, so I might as well try to talk to her. Running away would only make me look guilty. Better to face the music—or in this case, the dancer—and hope she’ll forgive me.
I knock. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy on you.” The silent treatment is all I get, deservedly so. “Come on, I’ve seen you dance, and you’ve seen me naked. We’re even-steven, right?”
