The phone screen glow fades as I toss it onto my comforter, still smiling like a fool. My cheeks actually hurt, but in the best way possible. Liam always knows exactly how to make me feel like the center of the universe—even when he's miles away at UCLA, buried in psychology textbooks and fraternity rush events.
I stretch out across my bed, letting the satisfaction of our two-hour phone conversation wash over me. We'd talked about everything and nothing—his roommate's terrible cooking attempts, how his psychology professor reminds him of his high school English teacher, the way the campus looks when fog rolls in from the coast. But mostly we'd talked about us. About how much he misses the way I steal his hoodies, how he saves funny memes throughout the day just to send them to me, how counting down to weekends has become his new favorite hobby.
A soft knock at my window interrupts my little love-struck haze.
I roll off the bed and slide the curtain aside. Zoey Tran grins at me from the other side of the glass, her pastel-pink hair glowing in the golden hour light like some sort of rebellious fairy. She's balanced precariously on the narrow ledge outside my second-floor window, something she's perfected after years of sneaking over when her own house gets too loud with her three younger brothers.
"Open up, Juliet." She calls softly, tapping her black-painted nails against the glass. "Romeo brought caffeine."
I can't help but laugh as I push the window up. "You're so dramatic."
"And you love it." She swings one leg over the sill with practiced ease, balancing with the skill of someone who's made this entrance about a thousand times. A plastic Starbucks cup dangles from her free hand, condensation already dripping onto my carpet.
"My absolute savior." I reach for the drink gratefully, recognizing my usual—iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot. Zoey knows me almost better than I know myself sometimes.
She collapses onto my bed in a flurry of plaid skirt and combat boots, immediately making herself at home among my throw pillows. The afternoon light catches the silver rings stacked on her fingers as she kicks her feet up like she owns the place.
"So." She draws out the word, fixing me with that knowing look I've learned to both love and fear. "Spill immediately. Why are you grinning like a cat who just got into the cream? Did Liam send you one of his thirst traps again?"
Heat creeps up my neck despite my best efforts to play it cool. "No."
Her perfectly arched brow—the result of a YouTube tutorial we spent three hours perfecting last summer—says she doesn't believe me for a second.
"Okay, maybe." I admit defeat, flopping down beside her on the bed. The mattress bounces under our combined weight. "But mostly he's just... ugh, Zo. He's perfect. Like actually perfect. He literally calls me every single night before bed, even when he has midterms or rush events. He remembers things I mention in passing, like how I hate when my coffee gets watery or that I'm nervous about my college application essay."
Zoey groans dramatically, pulling one of my decorative pillows over her head. "Stop it right now. You're making single people everywhere weep actual tears."
I grin, tugging the pillow away from her face. "No, seriously though. It's different with him. He's not like the guys here at all."
She props her chin on her hand, giving me that mock-skeptical expression she's perfected. "Not like the guys here, as in, not still asking their moms to pack their lunches and drive them to dates?"
"Exactly." I nudge her with my sock-covered foot. "He's mature. Sophisticated. He talks about books he's reading for fun, not just because they're assigned. He has opinions about politics and philosophy. He's... college."
The word feels almost glittery on my tongue. College. Like a door cracked open to a future I can almost touch, full of intellectual conversations and late-night debates and the kind of depth that feels impossible to find in high school hallways.
Zoey studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting from teasing to something more thoughtful. "Girl, you've got it bad. Like, dangerously bad. You're practically glowing every time someone mentions his name. Senior year glow-up? This is straight-up the Liam Parker transformation show."
She's not entirely wrong, and I can't bring myself to deny it. My entire Instagram feed has subtly shifted to reflect him without me even realizing it was happening. The cropped mirror selfies wearing his UCLA hoodie that still smells like his cologne. The aesthetic latte photos from our FaceTime coffee dates. The posts captioned with inside jokes that only he understands, little breadcrumbs of our private world scattered across my public feed.
The response has been incredible. My comments section swoons over every couple photo we post together. #CoupleGoals, #SheWon, #GetYouABoyfriendLikeThis. Even my mom has started showing my posts to her book club friends, bragging about my "nice college boyfriend" like he's some kind of trophy.
And maybe it's shallow, but every like and heart-eyes emoji feels like validation. Not only do I have the perfect boyfriend, but he's college-level perfect. He chose me over sorority girls and study group partners and all the sophisticated women who populate his daily life.
"You know what he did last week?" I ask, my voice automatically dropping into that conspiratorial whisper reserved for the really good gossip.
Zoey immediately leans in like I'm about to reveal state secrets. "Tell me everything."
"He drove two hours back from UCLA on a Wednesday night, just to surprise me after track practice. He brought flowers—actual roses, not gas station carnations. And then he took me to that overlook point outside town, the one where you can see all the city lights spread out like stars."
I pause, remembering the way he'd looked at me in the soft glow of his dashboard lights, how his hand had felt warm and solid in mine as we sat on the hood of his car talking until nearly midnight.
"We just talked for hours about everything—my content strategy, his psychology coursework, what we want to do after graduation. He listens to me, Zo. Actually listens, not just waiting for his turn to talk."
Zoey's expression has gone soft around the edges. "That sounds actually perfect. Like, disgustingly romantic."
"It was." I can feel the dreamy smile spreading across my face again. "And then when he was dropping me off, he kissed me goodnight and—"
"Spare me the PG-13 details before I die of secondhand butterflies."
But I'm already blushing, remembering the way his hands had settled on my waist, pulling me closer against the side of his car. How his breath had been warm against my neck as he'd whispered that he'd been thinking about that moment all week. How we'd both been grinning like idiots when we finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together in the glow of my front porch light.
Zoey notices my telltale blush and squeals, literally kicking her feet against my comforter. "Oh my god, it was totally like that. You absolute liar!"
"It was not!" I protest, but my voice cracks on the denial, completely betraying me.
She collapses into giggles that shake the entire bed. "You've officially entered your hot-girl era, Avery Lane. Senior year glow-up status: complete."
I can't even argue with her assessment. For the first time in my life, I actually feel like the version of myself I always wanted to be. Confident, desired, chosen. Not Madison's little sister trailing behind at family dinners. Not the awkward sophomore who used to trip over her own feet in the hallway.
Just me. But shinier. Better. Worth driving two hours for on a Wednesday night.
Zoey pulls out her phone, scrolling to my latest Instagram post. It's a simple mirror selfie from this morning, golden hour light streaming through my bedroom window, the caption just "midweek glow ✨." The engagement has been insane—over three thousand likes and counting.
"Look at this." She holds up the screen so I can see. "Liam was literally the first comment. Posted thirty seconds after you uploaded."
I lean over to read his comment again, even though I have it memorized: "That's my girl 😍"
The butterflies in my stomach do their familiar dance every time I see those three words. That's my girl. Like I belong to him, like he's proud to claim me publicly.
"He always comments first," I admit, probably sounding as lovesick as I feel. "Even when he's in class or at some college event. It's like he has notifications on just for my posts."
Zoey nudges me with her elbow, but her expression has shifted slightly. The teasing edge has been replaced by something more serious. "Okay, I'll admit—he's definitely got the perfect boyfriend act down to a science. The flowers, the late-night calls, the Instagram comments that make everyone jealous. It's almost too perfect."
Something in her tone makes me pause. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She sits up straighter on the bed, tucking her legs under herself. The playful atmosphere has evaporated, replaced by the kind of careful tension that usually precedes difficult conversations.
"It means... just be smart about this, Ave. College boys are a completely different breed from high school guys. They've had practice. They know exactly what to say and do to make you feel like you're the only girl in the world. But they've also got a lot more... distractions than Tyler from chemistry class."
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip, the warm buzz from our conversation suddenly feeling distant and fragile. "Zoey—"
"I'm not saying Liam specifically is like that," she interrupts quickly, holding up her hands. "I genuinely hope he's not. But I've watched my sister go through this exact thing with her college boyfriend sophomore year. She was convinced they were soulmates, thought he was different from all the other guys. Turned out he'd been hooking up with girls from his dorm the entire time they were 'exclusive.'"
The words hit like ice water, dousing the fairy-tale glow I've been living in for months. "Liam would never—"
"Maybe not." Her voice is gentle but firm. "But you're all in, I can tell. Like, completely head-over-heels, planning-your-future-together all in. And that's terrifying when the other person is living in a completely different world with completely different temptations."
I clutch my iced coffee tighter, the plastic cup crinkling under the pressure. For a second, my bedroom feels smaller, her words pressing against the fairy-light walls like storm clouds gathering.
But then my phone buzzes against the comforter, cutting through the tension. Another text from Liam lights up the screen, and despite Zoey's warning, I feel that familiar rush of warmth.
Liam 💙: Miss your face already. Can't concentrate on this psych reading when I keep thinking about you. Call me before bed?
The message is so perfectly him—sweet, slightly needy, making me feel essential to his happiness. I show Zoey the screen, and she reads it with a conflicted expression.
"See?" I whisper, more to convince myself than her. "He's thinking about me when he should be studying. If he was hooking up with other girls, would he be texting me about missing my face?"
Zoey's smile is small and doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Probably not. I hope not."
But there's something in the way she says it, something careful and measured, that plants a seed of doubt I don't want to acknowledge. I lock my phone, setting it face-down on the bed like that will somehow make the conversation disappear.
"He's not like that," I repeat, and this time I'm definitely trying to convince myself.
Zoey reaches over and squeezes my hand, her rings cool against my skin. When she speaks, her voice is soft but carries the weight of someone who's seen too many friends get their hearts broken.
"College boys... just be careful, Ave. They're not always loyal."
The warning hangs in the air between us long after she climbs back out my window, leaving me alone with my fairy lights and the uncomfortable feeling that maybe, just maybe, my perfect love story isn't quite as perfect as I thought.