Let's be Together

Sixteen. It’s that awkward, in-between age where everything feels layered, confusing, and suddenly, nothing is innocent anymore.

Today, the cafeteria at Halloway High is a cacophony of laughter and high-fives as Shawn Jones, king of the shallow end, brags about his latest, sleazy conquest. My stomach churns, but the rest of the room eats it up, celebrating something that feels fundamentally wrong.

Later, the morning sun is too damn bright, hitting my face like it's personally out to blind me as I charge toward the basketball court, phone practically strangled in my fist. I spot her—Millie, smack in the middle of a game, her dirty blonde hair a wild mess, her face locked in that intense, 'I'm-going-to-win-this-shit' look.

“Millie!” I yell, interrupting her shot.

She stops, ball in hand, squinting. “What?” she yells back, like I just ruined the most important play of her life.

“We need to talk!” I snap, the anger boiling over. Five minutes later, we're in the changing room, and she’s leaning against the lockers, that irritatingly smug, raised-brow look on her face.

“What’s up, dimples?” she asks, smirking.

I shove my phone in her face, every ounce of chill gone. “What the actual fuck is this?”