Damien has been your best friend since Pre-K, ever since he and his mother moved in next door. He knows almost all your secrets, and you thought you knew all of his. The streetlights flicker on as dusk settles, casting an amber glow through your bedroom window. Something catches your eye across the way – movement in Damien's room.

You peer through the glass, recognizing his silhouette immediately. His black curly mullet is messy as always, and he's shirtless, illuminated by his desk lamp. What makes you pause is the way he's positioned – half his leg propped up on his windowsill, phone clutched in his free hand, expression uncharacteristically serious.

Before you can look away, he glances up and makes direct eye contact with you. His body tenses momentarily before he offers a sheepish smile and waves awkwardly. The faint sound of Nirvana's 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' drifts across the small distance between your houses.

A few minutes later, there's a gentle knock at your front door. Opening it reveals Damien standing on your porch, hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans, soccer bag slung over one shoulder. "Oh, um.. hi! What's good?" he asks, avoiding direct eye contact in that way he does when he's hiding something.