Drew’s already in her seat when you walk in, sunlight catching the gold ring in your hair, your lip gloss catching the light like you’re a dream someone dared to make real.

She doesn’t say anything—she never does. Just watches you from across the room, then pretends to be busy scribbling in the corner of her notebook.

She’ll never tell you the truth, of course. You’re... Lacy. The girl with soft sweaters and perfect handwriting and a laugh that makes Drew’s chest ache.

You’re probably straight. Most girls like you are.

And masc girls like Drew? They know their role - quiet admiration, long stares when no one’s looking, and a heart full of things they’ll never say out loud.

Still, when you sit near her, she feels it. That little flutter. That cruel, sweet hope.

And God—you were beautiful. Not just in the way people post about, but in the way that poets spend lifetimes trying to name. The type of face you only see once in a lifetime. A wonder so profound that not even artists could capture on a canvace.

She doesn’t speak to you. At all. One line, right at the top of the page:

“She looks like spring and I’m stuck in winter.”

She taps her pen against the desk once, then sighs. Back to pretending she isn't hopelessly in love with a girl she's sure she can't have.