Time, as they say, is a thief. It steals scraped knees and replaces them with car keys. It swaps treehouses for final exams and pinky-promises for… well, for 'it's complicated.' The intervening years are a blur of growth spurts, bad haircuts, and the kind of teenage awkwardness best left to the cutting room floor. Nobody needs to see that. So let's skip the boring parts. Fast forward eight years. Press play.
The sovereign nation of Emma's bedroom had the same chaotic energy as its ruler. Posters of obscure bands and film noir classics battled for wall space. A precarious mountain of clothes was slowly conquering a desk chair. But across the floor, a semblance of order fought back: textbooks lay open, notes were spread in a semi-organized fan, and highlighters bled neon warnings onto printed pages. It was here, in the trenches of final exams, that Team J&E was making its last stand.
I was the dutiful sergeant, textbook in lap. "Okay, focus. What year was the Treaty of Versailles signed?"
Emma, lying on her stomach with her chin propped in her hands, was a conscientious objector. She wasn't looking at her notes; she was doodling a cartoon octopus wearing a top hat in the margins of her history notebook. "I can't cram one more historical date into my brain. It's full," she announced. "Can't we talk about something important? Like what I'm going to wear to Miller's party?"
"The date of the Treaty of Versailles is important. Your outfit is… not," I said, not looking up. "It was 1919. You're going to get that one wrong, I can feel it."
"I'll remember it now that you've shamed me into it," she sighed, finally flipping a page in her notes. "Wait, this part doesn't make sense."
I shuffled over on my knees, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look. The space between us collapsed. For a second, the world narrowed to a few distinct, overwhelming sensations: the scent of her shampoo, something clean and sweet like vanilla and green apples; the warmth radiating from her skin; the fine, blonde hairs at the nape of her neck. I felt my own breath catch, suddenly loud in the quiet room. Her pen stopped moving. A current, silent and powerful, passed between us—a full-body awareness that had nothing to do with history textbooks.
I pulled back, clearing my throat. The air felt thick. "You just need to… uh… you need to read the previous paragraph for context."
Emma sat up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and breaking the spell. Her recovery was faster than mine. "Seriously, though," she said, changing the subject with practiced ease. "You're going, right? To the party?"
I nodded, grateful for the new topic. "Yeah, of course."
"Good," she said, her smile returning. "It's our last big high school thing. It has to be perfect."
And there it was. Her belief in perfect moments, as steadfast and bright as ever.
Our escape from academic purgatory led us, as it always did, to the worn-out vinyl booth at Mel's Diner. Mel's was a time capsule, smelling eternally of stale coffee and hot grease, its neon sign casting a soft pink glow over the cracked linoleum. It was our place. Our waitress, a kind woman named Carol whose own kids had graduated a decade ago, didn't even need to take our order anymore. She just appeared with a single, tall glass of chocolate milkshake, a mountain of whipped cream, and two red straws.
It was a ritual. One glass, two straws. Something we'd done for years without a second thought. But tonight, after the moment in her bedroom, it felt different. More deliberate.
"Imagine it," I said, leaning back against the vinyl. "A year with no homework. We could just get an apartment in the city, find some cheap jobs… figure it all out."
Emma's eyes lit up at the thought. "We could get a place with a fire escape. I've always wanted a fire escape. We could work in that little indie movie theater, sell popcorn to film nerds."
"And eat half the inventory," I added.
"Obviously," she laughed, taking a long sip of the milkshake. The future felt that simple, that tangible. An extension of this booth, this milkshake. Just us, figuring it out together. The pact, unspoken but unbroken.
Carol returned to top off my coffee. She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at us, heads close together over the shared glass. "You two are just the cutest couple," she said warmly. "Let me know if you need anything else, lovebirds."
Heat flooded my neck. I felt a stupid, uncontrollable grin tug at my lips and I ducked my head, hoping she couldn't see it. The word 'couple' landed in the air between us and felt… right.
"Oh!" Emma's laugh was sudden, a little too loud. "No, god, we're not… we're just friends. Best friends." She said it to Carol's retreating back, her own smile feeling brittle and forced. She looked at me, her eyes wide for a second, then quickly focused back on the milkshake as if it held the secrets to the universe.
The comfortable intimacy of the moment curdled. The air grew thick again, but this time with the weight of something denied.
'Just friends.' The oldest and most complicated lie in the book. He wants to believe it's a placeholder. She needs to believe it's a shield. They're both standing on the same trapdoor, thinking it's solid ground. But the hinges, reader... the hinges are already starting to creak.