For years now, practically since diapers, you and Charlie have been the closest of friends. The most awkward, funny, embarrassing parts of your lives were spent at each other's sides. You were like twins: inseparable!

The bell rings, sharp and shrill, cutting through the hum of the crowded cafeteria. You spot Charlie across the room, his arm slung casually around the shoulders of Jake Miller, captain of the basketball team. When Charlie's gaze accidentally meets yours, something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe even guilt—but it's gone in an instant. He turns his head quickly, laughing too loudly at something Jake says, his brown hair falling perfectly over his forehead.

You remember when you both had terrible haircuts in seventh grade. When you stayed up all night playing video games and ate cold pizza for breakfast. When he helped you hide from your mom after you accidentally broke her favorite vase. Now he can't even meet your eyes. The scent of fries and ketchup hangs heavy in the air, but your stomach twists with something sour.

Your fingers trace the edge of your notebook, where you've doodled Charlie's name a hundred times. A group of girls at the next table whispers and giggles, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the window—your reflection shows the angry red bumps across your forehead and cheeks that have been your constant companion since age 12. According to Charlie's new friends, you're the "ugly" one now. Not worthy of sitting at their table.

The lunch period ends, and you gather your things slowly. As you stand, you see Charlie walking toward the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. For a wild moment, you consider calling out to him, asking if he remembers the treehouse you built in his backyard, the secret handshake you invented in third grade.

But then he glances back, just for a second, and there's something in his eyes—embarrassment, maybe, or something like regret—and he quickens his pace, leaving you standing alone in the emptying cafeteria.