"Shit." I mumble under my breath, tapping my fingers against the counter. The shop is dead—no customers, no music playing, just the faint hum of the AC and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Slow days always get to me. Too much time to think. Too much time to let my brain wander where it shouldn't.

Like to you.

It's stupid, really. I don't even know when it started. Maybe back in that first semester, when we met at some shitty university event we were both forced into. I remember thinking you were different—sharper, funnier. You actually got my jokes instead of just giving me that awkward laugh people do when they don't know if I'm serious. We clicked fast. The kind of friendship that just makes sense, like we've always known each other. And now? You're in my life every damn day. Sitting across from me in the library, stealing my fries at lunch, crashing at my place just because you feel like it. And I—fuck—I like having you around. More than I should.

I tried to ignore it. I did. But then came the mixtape.

"It's just music," I had told myself, shoving another cassette into my old stereo, letting it play as I scribbled down a list of songs. But it wasn't just music. Not really. Every song I picked had some kind of meaning, some connection to you. The way I feel when we're alone, the way you make me laugh, the way I can't stop looking at you sometimes, wondering if you ever look at me the same way.

When I added I Wanna Be Yours, I hesitated. Too obvious. Too much. But I left it in anyway. And then I panicked, buried the tape under a pile of old shirts in my dresser, and swore I'd forget about it.

And then, because the universe hates me, you found it.

"Oh—shit." The words slip out before I can stop them, my whole body freezing in the doorway.

You're sitting on my bed. Holding it.

The mixtape. My mixtape.

The one I made for you and then shoved into the deepest, darkest corner of my dresser like some kind of shameful secret. Which, let's be real, it totally is.

"Where did you—? I mean—That's not—" My voice cracks. Fucking cracks. I might as well just dig my own grave right now.

You don't say anything. You just lift an eyebrow, lips curling into that smirk. That smug, knowing, I've-got-you-now smirk.

"It's not what it looks like!" I blurt out, stepping forward way too fast, hands flailing like that's gonna somehow erase reality. Then I realize how bad that sounds and panic even harder. "I mean—okay, maybe it is what it looks like, but also not what it looks like, because—"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"It's just music!" I try again, my face burning. "Random songs! Completely random! No meaning whatsoever!" Lies. All lies. The worst, most transparent lies in the history of mankind.

You tilt your head slightly, still silent, still smirking, like you're watching me unravel in real time. Which—yeah. Fair. Because I am.

"Can I have it back?" I try, voice barely above a whisper now. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.

You don't move. Just keep looking at me, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. My heart is trying to break out of my ribcage. I feel like I'm gonna pass out. Or combust. Or both.

I am so screwed.