The Boy Who Knew Me First

Season 1

Episode 4

by Joxy

The Boy Who Knew Me First - Season 1, Episode 4: Matchup

Chapter 1: CHAPTER 1: THE SETUP

The Decision

The problem with physics is that it's supposed to make sense. You input the correct variables, apply the correct equations, and you get the correct answer. It's clean. Predictable. Safe.

Love doesn't work that way.

2 AM and I can't stop scribbling physics equations. Not homework—just me trying to math my way out of what Jordan told me three hours ago. Like there's some formula that'll make this make sense.

They're going to separate you. And they're going to make it look like it's for his own good.

My pen scratches across the paper:

Variable E = Ethan's future (hockey career, family expectations, prep school)

Variable S = Me (our friendship, whatever this... thing is, the way my whole body goes haywire when he smiles)

Variable T = Time (he leaves January 4th—pushed back from December 28th because of hockey playoffs, but still. Less than five weeks.)

Variable H = Hayes Family (money, power, legal maneuvering, threats)

I draw the equation:

E + S = ?

The answer should be simple. But every way I work it, someone loses.

If E + S = together → H intervenes → E loses everything

If E - S = apart → E's future secure → S loses everything → E loses S

There's no solution where we both win.

Outside my window, Winnipeg is settling into real winter. The kind of cold that literally bites, that makes your breath visible in clouds, that turns the world sharp and brittle. November sliding into December. The trees are bare skeletons, the grass buried under snow that squeaks when you walk on it, and everything feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

My phone buzzes. I already know who it is before I look.

ethan: u ok? jordan said u left kinda fast

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Five weeks. That's all we have before his parents ship him off to Michigan, to some prep school where NHL scouts watch every practice and his father's investment in his future becomes inescapable.

Five weeks where I could be selfish. Where I could keep pretending we're just friends who can't stop looking at each other, who text until 3 AM about literally nothing, who've somehow memorized each other's breathing patterns.

Or five weeks where I could do the right thing.

I type: yeah just tired

Delete it. Too casual.

I'm fine. Just tired. Talk tomorrow?

Delete. Still wrong.

Finally: yeah im good. talk tmrw?

The dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. My heart does this stupid stuttering thing.

ethan: sure. sleep well watson

I stare at that nickname—the one he's called me since we were nine and decided I was Sherlock and he was my Watson, even though he insisted it should be the other way around. The one that used to mean we were partners in everything.

The one I'm about to make mean nothing.

I close my notebook, the equation unsolved, and turn off my light. But I don't sleep. I lie there in the dark, listening to winter wind rattling my window, and make the hardest decision of my life.

Tomorrow, I start walking away.

Monday Morning

The thing about avoiding someone you see every day? It requires, like, constant vigilance. Ethan and I have synchronized schedules—AP Physics together, lunch with the same group, study sessions at Jordan's. We exist in overlapping orbits, planets circling the same sun.

Changing that orbit requires force. Deliberate, painful force.

Monday morning I take the long route to my locker, the one that goes past the gym and smells like old sneakers. I check my phone obsessively—someone already posted about the party Saturday night on their story, Maya's complaining about homework in the group chat, there's a TikTok about college apps that makes me want to throw my phone.

I time my arrival to Physics perfectly—slip in right as the bell rings, no chance for our usual pre-class conversation about whatever random thing we talked about until 2 AM. I take a seat in the back instead of our usual spot in the third row.

He notices immediately. Of course he does.

When Mr. Hendricks drones on about momentum and force vectors, Ethan keeps glancing back. I can feel his eyes like actual weight, but I don't look up. I focus on my notes with laser precision, writing down every word like this is the most important lecture I've ever attended. My handwriting gets progressively worse as my hand cramps.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, twice, three times.

I don't check it.

After class, I'm the first one out the door, mumbling something about needing to talk to Coach Martinez about badminton practice. It's not even a lie—I do need to talk to her about regionals in January. Just not, like, right this second.

But it gets me out of the hallway before Ethan can catch up.

At lunch, I sit between Maya and Jordan, putting them as human shields between me and the empty chair that's always been Ethan's. When he arrives, tray in hand, that confused-hurt look making me want to die, I'm deep in conversation with Maya about our upcoming match against Churchill.

"Soph," Ethan says, standing at the edge of our table.

"Hey." Bright. Friendly. Distant. I hate myself. "How's your, um—" I gesture vaguely at his tray.

"My lunch?"

"Yeah, is it... good?"

He blinks. "I literally just got here."

"Oh. Right." God, kill me. I turn back to Maya. "So you were saying about their singles player?"

There's this horrible moment where Ethan just stands there, trying to figure out what's happening. Then he takes the chair across from me instead of next to me. The table suddenly feels huge, like we're on opposite continents.

Jordan shoots me a look that says what the hell are you doing? I give him one back that says what you told me to.

Except Jordan didn't tell me to do this. He told me Ethan's parents were planning something. He didn't say I should help them.

That's all me.

"So," Tyler Chen says—different Tyler, not hockey Tyler, this is calc-class Tyler—"did everyone see that insane Leafs game last night?"

The conversation shifts to hockey, which I tune out. Ethan contributes normally, but I catch him watching me three times. Each time I look away first, suddenly fascinated by my untouched sandwich.

By the end of lunch, my stomach hurts and I haven't eaten anything.

"Okay, what the actual fuck?" Maya says as we're walking to History.

"Language," I say weakly.

"Don't deflect. You're being weird with Ethan."

"I'm not being weird."

"Sophia. You sat between me and Jordan like we're human shields. You asked about his lunch like you're an alien trying to understand human food. And I'm pretty sure you just agreed to help with the winter fundraiser, which you literally hate."

I stop walking. "I did?"

"See? Weird." Maya's braids swing as she faces me fully, hands on hips. "What happened? Did you guys fight?"

"No."

"Did he do something?"

"No. Maya, it's fine."

"It's clearly not fine. You look like you're gonna cry, and he looks like someone murdered his dog. So what's going on?"

I want to tell her. Maya's been my best friend since sophomore year—she's the one who made Winnipeg feel less like exile and more like home. She knows about the childhood friendship with Ethan, the reunion, the slowly building something that neither of us has actually said out loud.

But I can't explain that I'm doing this to protect him without explaining what I'm protecting him from. And Jordan told me about Ethan's parents in confidence.

"His parents want him to focus on hockey," I say finally. It's not a lie. "And I'm... a distraction."

Maya's expression shifts from confused to pissed. "They said that?"

"Not to me directly. But yeah, basically."

"So you're just... what? Ghosting him?"

"I'm not ghosting. I'm giving him space."

"Space he clearly doesn't want."

"Space he needs."

Maya stares at me, and I can see her trying to decide whether to push. Finally, she sighs. "Soph, this is literally one of those things where you're overthinking it."

"Maybe."

"And you look miserable."

"I'm fine."

"Right. And I'm dating Harry Styles." She loops her arm through mine anyway. "Come on. We're already late, and Peterson's still mad about my French Revolution essay."

We walk to class, but I'm only half listening to Maya's story about how she accidentally wrote that Marie Antoinette invented cake. The other half of me is trying not to think about the hurt confusion on Ethan's face at lunch.

Five weeks, I remind myself. Just five weeks, and he'll be gone anyway. This way it hurts less.

The problem is, it already hurts so much I can barely breathe.

Thursday Lunch

By Thursday, I've gotten better at the avoidance thing. Different routes to classes, strategic seating, always having somewhere urgent to be. It's exhausting, like playing three-dimensional chess against someone who knows all your moves.

I'm at my locker, switching books for afternoon classes, when Tyler Kim appears next to me. Not calc-Tyler—hockey Tyler. Senior, defense position, team captain. Six-foot-two of hockey player in a beat-up Canucks hoodie that's seen better days.

"Hey," he says, leaning against the lockers. "Sophia, right?"

"Yeah." I fumble with my physics textbook. "Tyler?"

"That's me." He's got this easy smile, the kind that probably makes half the school swoon. "So, random question. You're in Nakamura's study group, yeah?"

"Usually, yeah."

"Cool. I've been struggling with calc—related rates are literally killing me. Ethan mentioned you're basically a math genius."

I freeze. "Ethan said that?"

"Among other things." Tyler's still smiling, but there's something knowing in his expression. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could crash study group tonight? If that's cool with you guys?"

"It's Jordan's house. You'd have to ask him."

"Already did. He said it's fine. I'm asking if it's cool with you."

There's weight to the question I don't understand. "Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

"No reason." He pushes off the lockers. "See you tonight then. Thanks, Sophia."

He walks away, and I'm left standing there, confused. My phone buzzes.

maya: tyler kim is coming to study group??? maya: hockey tyler not calc tyler maya: this is literally the most random thursday ever

She's not wrong.

Thursday Evening

Study group at Jordan's is usually my favorite part of the week. His basement is perfect—huge sectional couch, good lighting, his mom leaves snacks, and his dad pretends we don't exist. It's been our Thursday thing since October.

Tonight, I arrive exactly on time instead of early. The basement already has voices—Ethan's laugh at something Jordan said, the sound making my chest tight.

"Finally," Jordan says when he sees me. "We're ordering pizza. Preferences?"

"Whatever's fine."

I set up at Jordan's desk instead of the couch. Maya arrives a minute later, followed by Alex and Marcus from the hockey team. Then Tyler Kim shows up with his calc textbook and a family-size bag of Doritos.

"Contribution to the cause," he announces, tossing the bag on the coffee table.

We settle into studying. I'm actually making progress on my physics homework when Tyler groans dramatically from the couch.

"I actually hate related rates. Like, with passion."

"They're not that bad," Ethan says.

"Says the guy who got a 98 on the last test."

"97," Ethan corrects.

"Oh, excuse me. 97. Totally different."

I find myself almost smiling. Tyler's funny in this self-deprecating way that feels genuine.

"The ladder one's killing me," Tyler continues. "Why is the ladder sliding? Who's measuring this? Is this someone's job?"

"It's just an example," I say without thinking.

Tyler looks over. "Okay, but like, can you explain it? Because I've been staring at it for twenty minutes and my brain's melting."

I hesitate. Going over means sitting near the couch. Near Ethan.

"Please?" Tyler adds. "I'll owe you forever. I'll name my firstborn after you."

"That's a weird offer."

"I'm desperate."

Maya kicks my chair. "Just help him, Soph."

I grab my notebook and move to the floor by the coffee table. Tyler slides down next to me, his textbook between us. He smells like hockey gear and whatever body spray teenage boys think is subtle but isn't.

"Okay, so picture this ladder thing," I start. "It's like, twenty feet long or whatever."

"Already lost."

"No, wait. Imagine it's leaning against a wall, but the bottom starts sliding away. They want to know how fast the top is falling when the bottom is fifteen feet from the wall."

"Still confused but keep going."

I draw a diagram, explaining Pythagorean theorem, derivatives, the relationship between the rates. Tyler asks questions—good ones, actually. He's not dumb, just needed someone to walk through it.

"Oh shit," he says suddenly. "That actually makes sense."

"Right?"

"You're literally a lifesaver." He grins, and I notice he has really nice dimples. "Ethan was right—you are a math genius."

I glance at the couch where Ethan's watching us, expression unreadable. Our eyes meet for a second before I look away.

"Just good at explaining, I guess."

We work through a few more problems. Tyler's funny, making jokes about the word problems ("Why are there so many people filling pools at different rates? Is this a thing?"), and I'm actually enjoying myself.

When study group breaks up around nine, Tyler walks out with me.

"Thanks again," he says as we reach my car. "Seriously, you saved my calc grade."

"No problem."

"Hey, so..." He shifts, suddenly less confident. "This is kinda random, but winter formal's coming up. December sixteenth."

My brain short-circuits. "Oh."

"Would you maybe want to go? With me?" He rushes to add, "Like, no pressure. We could just go as friends, have fun. The team usually goes as a group anyway."

Tyler Kim is asking me to winter formal.

Tyler Kim, who's sweet and funny and uncomplicated. Tyler Kim, who has nothing to do with impossible equations and family ultimatums and hearts that beat out of rhythm.

Tyler Kim, who is safe.

"Can I think about it?" I hear myself say.

"Yeah, totally. No rush." He smiles, easy and warm. "Text me whenever. Or tell me at school. Or send a carrier pigeon. I'm flexible."

I laugh despite everything. "I'll let you know."

"Cool. Night, Sophia."

"Night."

I sit in my car for a minute, heating up, when my phone buzzes.

ethan: u ok?

I look back at Jordan's house. Through the basement window, I can see figures still moving around.

me: yeah why?

ethan: tyler asked u to formal

Not a question. A statement.

me: yeah

The dots appear and disappear for a solid minute.

ethan: cool. hes a good guy

me: yeah he seems nice

More dots. Then nothing. Then:

ethan: miss talking to u

My heart cracks. I type and delete five responses before settling on:

me: i know. im sorry

ethan: dont be sorry. just talk to me

ethan: whatever it is we can figure it out

ethan: sophie please

I turn off my phone and drive home, tears blurring the streetlights into stars.

Friday After School

I find Tyler at his locker after last period. The hallway's chaos—everyone excited about the weekend, about the game tonight, about Friday freedom.

"Hey," I say.

He turns, face lighting up. "Sophia! What's up?"

"About winter formal."

"Oh." He actually looks nervous, which is weirdly endearing on someone built like a truck. "What're you thinking?"

"I'm thinking yes. If that's still—if you still want to."

His whole face transforms. "Yeah? Really? That's—yeah, absolutely."

"But just, um, to be clear—I'm not really looking for anything serious right now. With college apps and badminton and everything."

"Totally get it. No pressure. We'll just have fun."

We figure out he'll text me about details, colors, all that stuff I've seen in movies but never actually done. When I turn to leave, he calls after me.

"Hey, you coming to the game tonight?"

"I don't usually—"

"You should. We're playing Oak Park. It'll be good." He grins. "Plus, now you're contractually obligated to support your formal date."

"Is that how it works?"

"Definitely. Page 47 of the formal date handbook."

I find myself actually smiling. "Maybe I'll come."

"Bring Maya. Jordan's playing tonight too."

As I walk away, my phone explodes.

maya: TYLER KIM ASKED U TO FORMAL????? maya: THE HOCKEY CAPTAIN TYLER????? maya: SENIOR TYLER???? maya: SOPHIA CHEN WHAT IS HAPPENING

me: its not a big deal

maya: ITS LITERALLY THE BIGGEST DEAL maya: jordan heard from alex who heard from marcus maya: the hockey gossip network is FAST

me: its just a dance

maya: WITH THE HOCKEY CAPTAIN maya: wait are u ok with this? maya: like actually ok?

me: yeah i think itll be fun

What I don't type: I'm using Tyler Kim as armor against feelings I can't afford. I'm the worst person alive.

maya: WE NEED DRESSES maya: OMG WE NEED TO GO SHOPPING maya: TOMORROW

me: ok ok calm down

maya: NEVER maya: also ur coming to the game tonight maya: not optional maya: tyler will be looking for u

She's not wrong.

Friday Night

The arena is packed, that intense hockey crowd energy that makes you understand why people get so invested in sports. Maya and I find seats five rows up, close enough to see everything.

"Forgot how loud hockey crowds are," Maya says, already destroying popcorn.

The teams come out for warmups. Ethan's number 19, skating with that effortless grace that made him impossible to catch even when we were nine. He looks like he belongs here, like the ice is where he makes sense.

Tyler's number 7, bigger than Ethan but surprisingly fast. He waves when he spots us—just a quick stick raise that makes the girls in front of us turn around.

"Did Tyler Kim just wave at you?" one asks.

"They're going to formal together," Maya announces, because subtlety isn't her thing.

Instant chatter. Apparently Tyler's been single all semester. I learn his ex goes to McGill now, that he's already got a full ride to UBC, that half the team has been trying to set him up.

The game starts, and I remember why I don't usually come to these. Hockey's so fast, so violent. Every time someone crashes into the boards, I flinch.

But watching Ethan play... it's like watching him become who he's supposed to be. He doesn't just play hockey—he conducts it, seeing plays before they happen, being exactly where he needs to be.

Oak Park scores first. Our section groans. Then Tyler makes this incredible defensive play, using his whole body to block what would definitely have been a goal.

"Jesus," Maya mutters. "Remind me not to piss him off."

Ethan's line scores to tie it up. The crowd goes insane. He set up the play—this perfect pass that nobody saw coming except him.

Between periods, I check my phone. Three messages from Jordan about how we're definitely going to win, one from my mom asking when I'll be home, and:

ethan: u came

me: maya dragged me

ethan: still. thanks

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't respond.

Third period, we're up 3-2 with two minutes left. Oak Park pulls their goalie, desperate for the tie. Six on five. The tension's unbearable.

Ethan steals the puck. Empty net. He could shoot from anywhere, secure the win. Instead, he passes to Tyler, who's in better position. Tyler scores.

The arena explodes. Maya's hugging me even though neither of us really cares about hockey. Tyler's getting mobbed by the team, but I see him point at Ethan—making sure everyone knows who set it up.

After the game, we wait outside the locker room with other friends and family. Tyler comes out first, hair still wet, looking tired but happy.

"You came!" He seems genuinely surprised.

"Good game. That empty-netter was perfect."

"That was all Ethan. Perfect pass." He shifts his bag. "Hey, bunch of us are hitting Danny's. You guys want to come?"

Maya immediately says yes. I'm about to make an excuse when Ethan emerges from the locker room.

Our eyes meet across the crowded hallway. He's still in his underarmor shirt, hair damp, and for a second I forget how to breathe. Then Tyler's saying something about pancakes and the moment breaks.

At Danny's, I end up in a booth with Tyler on one side, Maya and Jordan across from us. Ethan's two tables over with some other guys from the team, but I can feel him there, like gravity.

"So," Tyler says, stealing one of my fries even though he ordered his own. "Formal. I need education. What color dress?"

"I don't know yet."

"Don't guys usually wait to hear so they can match?" Jordan asks.

"Do we match? Is that required?" Tyler looks genuinely concerned.

"We don't have to match," I assure him.

"But we can if you want. I clean up pretty good."

Maya kicks me under the table, giving me a look that says he's trying so hard. And he is. Tyler's sweet and funny and uncomplicated, and I should be happy that this nice, attractive senior wants to take me to a dance.

Instead, I'm hyperaware that Ethan's three tables away, laughing at something Marcus said, and I know that laugh, know the way his eyes crinkle, know exactly how his shoulders move when he's really amused.

"Earth to Sophia," Tyler says gently.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you have a curfew. Don't want to get you in trouble."

"Oh. Midnight."

"Cool. I'll make sure you turn into a pumpkin on time."

He's trying so hard to make me comfortable, to be easy and fun and pressure-free. He deserves better than being someone's safety choice.

When we leave, he walks me to my car again.

"Thanks for coming tonight. To the game, I mean. It was cool having you there."

"Thanks for inviting me."

"So I'll text you about formal stuff? We can figure out the logistics."

"Sounds good."

He hesitates, then: "Sophia, can I ask you something?"

My stomach drops. "Sure."

"Is there—I mean, you and Ethan. You guys are friends, right?"

The word tastes like a lie. "Yeah. We're friends."

Tyler nods slowly. "Cool. Just checking. I don't want to cause any drama or whatever."

"No drama. Promise."

Another lie. Everything about this is drama, just the quiet kind that happens in your chest where nobody can see it.

"Okay. Well, see you Monday."

"See you Monday."

I drive home through empty streets, past houses starting to put up Christmas lights, past The Forks where everything started, past the life I thought I was going to have.

My phone buzzes at a red light.

ethan: we need to talk

me: i know

ethan: tomorrow?

me: cant tomorrow. shopping with maya

ethan: sunday then

ethan: please sophie

That 'please' breaks something in me.

me: ok. sunday

ethan: the forks? 2pm?

Our place. Where we found each other again, where everything got complicated, where I'm going to have to tell him I can't do this.

me: ok

ethan: thank u

I drive the rest of the way home in silence, no music, no podcast, just the sound of my tires on frozen pavement and my heart beating out of rhythm.

Sunday. I have two days to figure out how to explain that I'm walking away because I love him too much to ruin his life.

Two days to solve an impossible equation.

Two days to learn how to lie to the person who knows me better than anyone.

No pressure.

Chapter 2: CHAPTER 2: THE WRONG EQUATION

First Date

Saturday afternoon, December 2nd, and I'm standing in front of my closet having an existential crisis about what you wear on a date you don't actually want to be on. My phone's propped against my mirror, Maya on FaceTime providing unsolicited fashion advice.

"The blue sweater," she says, taking a bite of whatever she's eating. Sounds like chips. "It brings out your eyes and makes you look less like you're about to throw up."

"I'm not gonna throw up."

"Soph. You've literally changed outfits four times. For coffee." She holds up her fingers. "Coffee. Not the Met Gala."

She's right. I'm being ridiculous. It's just coffee with Tyler, who's genuinely nice and easy to talk to and definitely doesn't deserve whatever disaster energy I'm bringing to this.

I pull on the blue sweater, checking myself in the mirror. My phone buzzes with a notification—someone's Instagram story. I swipe it away without looking.

"Better?"

"Much. Now breathe."

I breathe. Sort of.

"Now put on actual pants instead of those study-til-3-AM joggers."

"They're comfortable."

"They're a cry for help." Maya's grinning though. "Also I saw Ethan's story from practice this morning. That boy looked rough."

My stomach twists. "I didn't see it."

"Liar. You always watch his stories." She studies me through the screen. "You two still not talking?"

"We're talking. Just... less."

"Because of his parents?"

"Yeah."

"That's bullshit, you know that right? Like, who cares what they think?"

If only it were that simple.

Ten minutes later, I'm in jeans and the blue sweater and my winter coat because it's -15°C and nobody cares about fashion when literal frostbite is on the table. Maya's switched from FaceTime to rapid-fire texts.

maya: have fun!!! maya: be yourself!!! maya: but like the fun version maya: not the overthinking everything version maya: actually nvm just be you he already likes you

I drive downtown to The Daily Grind—not my first choice (too close to campus where we might run into people), but Tyler suggested it and I didn't want to seem difficult. The coffee shop is packed with university students, laptops everywhere, that mix of espresso and stressed-student that's basically Winnipeg's official scent during finals.

Tyler's already there, corner table, scrolling through his phone. When he sees me, his whole face lights up. He's wearing that beat-up Canucks hoodie he basically lives in, and there's something comforting about how un-fancy this is.

"Hey," he says, standing up like this is way more formal than it is. "I ordered already—hope that's okay? Got you a vanilla latte? But I can get something else if—"

"Vanilla latte's perfect. Thanks."

We sit, and there's this moment where we both realize this is a Date with a capital D and suddenly forget how to be normal humans. Then Tyler laughs.

"This is weird as hell, right?"

"So weird."

"Okay good. Thought it was just me." He takes a sip of his coffee—black, which seems very hockey player of him. "So. Badminton. I've been googling it all week and I still don't get the scoring."

I laugh, something in my chest loosening. "Oh god, yeah, rally scoring is confusing at first..."

We talk about badminton for ten minutes—me explaining the rules, the difference between singles and doubles, why the shuttlecock moves the way it does (physics, always physics). Tyler asks surprisingly good questions, making jokes about how it seems way more complicated than hockey's "put puck in net, don't die" philosophy.

"But hockey has like a million penalties," I point out. "Icing, offsides, high-sticking—"

"Okay fine, every sport is complicated when you actually think about it."

"Exactly."

The conversation flows easier after that. School stuff—he's dying in AP Literature ("Why can't authors just say what they mean?"), I'm drowning in AP History ("I literally don't care about the War of 1812"). We talk about college plans—his hockey scholarship to UBC is basically set, just waiting on the official letter.

"But I'm doing marine biology too," he adds, almost shy about it.

"Wait, really?"

"I know, random as hell. But my family used to vacation in Tofino every summer when I was a kid. I got obsessed with tide pools. Like, seriously obsessed. My dad thought I'd grow out of it." He grins, and those dimples are genuinely unfair. "Spoiler: did not grow out of it."

"That's actually really cool though."

"Yeah? You don't think it's weird? Big hockey guy wanting to study fish?"

"No, it's like... you contain multitudes."

"Look at you, quoting Whitman. Maybe I should get you to tutor me in Lit too."

"Hard pass. I barely understand it myself."

"What about you?" he asks. "MIT still the dream?"

My chest tightens. MIT. Where Ethan wanted to go for engineering before his parents decided his life for him.

"Maybe. Or Caltech. Cornell. Princeton. I don't know." I wrap my hands around my mug, the warmth grounding me. "Depends on like, a million factors. Scholarships, mostly."

"You'll get in everywhere. Ethan says you're literally the smartest person he knows."

There it is. Ethan's name hanging between us like a challenge.

"Ethan exaggerates."

"Nah. He's pretty accurate about stuff like that." Tyler's quiet for a moment, playing with his coffee lid. "He's a good dude. Like, genuinely good. Best friend I've got on the team, which is saying something 'cause Marcus and Alex are solid too."

"Yeah. He is."

We keep talking—favorite shows (he's obsessed with this ocean documentary series, I'm rewatching Avatar for the hundredth time), music (we have zero overlap except somehow both love Taylor Swift's folklore), whether pineapple belongs on pizza (he says yes, I say that's offensive to both pineapples and pizza).

He tells me about his younger sister who plays hockey too, this tiny terror on ice who's definitely going to be better than him. I tell him about being an only child, about my mom's research that I don't fully understand, my dad's restaurant dreams that turned into accounting reality.

It's nice. Really nice.

And it feels completely, utterly wrong.

Not because Tyler's doing anything wrong—he's literally perfect. Attentive without being creepy, funny without trying too hard, actually listening when I talk instead of just waiting for his turn. But sitting here with him, laughing at his stories about practice disasters, learning he volunteers at the aquarium in summer, I keep having this feeling like I'm wearing someone else's life. Like I'm in a play and forgot my lines so I'm just making it up and hoping nobody notices.

My phone buzzes on the table. I flip it over without looking, but Tyler sees.

"You can check it. I'm not one of those guys who gets weird about phones."

"It's fine. Probably just Maya wanting updates."

"She seems cool. Very... intense about your life."

"That's one way to put it."

Two hours somehow pass. The coffee shop's getting that late afternoon rush—students desperate for caffeine before night study sessions. Tyler checks his phone and winces.

"Shit. Practice at five. Coach will murder me if I'm late again."

"Again?"

"Last week I got distracted watching octopus videos and lost track of time." He looks genuinely embarrassed. "I have a problem."

"There are worse problems to have."

We bundle up—the Manitoba winter slap is real—and he walks me the half block to my car. The cold makes talking impossible, but when we reach my Honda, he turns to face me.

"This was really fun," he says, breath clouding between us.

"Yeah, it was."

"Would you maybe want to do it again? Not immediately, but like, sometime?"

He's trying so hard. Standing there in the cold, snow starting to fall, genuinely hopeful. This nice, funny, uncomplicated boy who texts his sister octopus facts and wants to study the ocean.

I should say no. I should explain that I'm emotionally unavailable, that I'm dealing with complicated feelings, that he deserves someone whose heart races when he smiles instead of someone who feels nothing but mild friendliness.

But explaining would mean talking about Ethan. About impossible equations and family ultimatums and feelings I can't afford.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I'd like that."

Tyler's smile could power Winnipeg for a week. "Cool. Awesome. I'll text you."

He leans in—my whole body tenses—but he just kisses my cheek. Quick, gentle, respectful. His lips are warm and smell like coffee and...

Nothing.

I feel absolutely nothing.

"Drive safe," he says.

"You too."

I watch him walk away, probably already mentally preparing for practice, definitely not overthinking every word we just said. Must be nice.

I sit in my car for five minutes, heat blasting, trying to figure out what I'm doing. My phone has four messages.

maya: UPDATES??? maya: sophia chen dont leave me hanging maya: if ur making out just say that maya: ok but seriously how did it go

me: good! hes really nice

maya: that's it? nice?

me: really really nice?

maya: i'm gonna need more than that

maya: wait are you still with him???

me: no driving home

maya: AND???

me: and nothing. we had coffee. talked. it was nice.

maya: you keep saying nice

maya: that's like the worst adjective

maya: nice is what you say about weather

maya: or your grandma's friend

maya: do you actually like him??

I stare at that question for way too long.

me: i don't not like him

maya: omfg sophia

maya: that's literally the saddest thing

maya: you know what? we'll discuss tomorrow

maya: but honey... maybe think about what you actually want?

What I want. Right. Because that's not a loaded question at all.

I drive home past houses already going full Christmas decoration war—inflatable Santas battling light-up reindeer, that one house that definitely spends thousands on their display. When I pull in, my mom's car is there, which means she actually left the lab before midnight for once.

Inside, she's making tea, still in her work clothes—the lab coat draped over a kitchen chair.

"How was coffee?" she asks, not looking up from her mug.

Maya definitely texted her. They have this whole conspiracy thing going.

"It was nice."

Mom looks up. "Nice?"

"He's a nice guy, Mom."

"Hmm." She takes a sip of tea. "But?"

"No but. It was a nice date with a nice person."

"Sophia." She sets down her mug, giving me that look that means she's about to drop wisdom. "You know you're allowed to just... like someone, right? Without analyzing it to death?"

God, if only she knew about my actual equations.

"I know."

"And you also know you don't have to like someone just because they're nice, right?"

That stops me. "What?"

"I mean, sometimes people are lovely, perfect on paper, check all the boxes. But if your heart's not in it..." She shrugs. "That's okay too. Nice isn't enough if there's no spark."

I think about Tyler's smile, how easy our conversation was, that cheek kiss that felt like nothing. Then I think about just seeing Ethan in the hall and feeling like I might combust.

"What if you're not sure?" I ask quietly.

"Then give it time. But be honest—with him and yourself." She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "Don't date someone to prove something or because you think you should. That's not fair to anyone."

"I'm not—" But I can't finish that sentence because that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Okay." She doesn't push, just smiles. "I'm making dumplings. Want to help?"

We spend the next hour in the kitchen, folding dumplings while Mom tells me about her protein research that I pretend to understand. It's comfortable, normal, except for my phone buzzing every few minutes.

tyler: thanks again for today. you're really easy to talk to.

me: you too! see you monday

Then, thirty seconds later:

ethan: can we talk?

My heart does that thing where it forgets how to beat properly.

me: having dinner with family. sorry.

ethan: after?

ethan: please sophie

ethan: i don't understand what's happening

The dots appear and disappear for a solid minute before his next message.

ethan: did i do something wrong?

God, no. You did everything right. That's the problem.

me: you didn't do anything wrong

me: i just need some space to figure things out

ethan: figure what out?

ethan: is this about tyler?

me: no

me: maybe

me: i don't know

ethan: that's not really an answer

me: i know. i'm sorry.

ethan: stop apologizing and just talk to me

ethan: we're friends right? we can talk about stuff

Friends. The word hurts more than it should.

me: tomorrow. i promise. just... not tonight.

ethan: the forks? after practice?

Our place. Where everything started and got complicated and where I'll probably have to break both our hearts.

me: okay

ethan: thank you

I help Mom with dinner, barely eat anything, claim homework and escape to my room. But instead of homework, I pull out my physics notebook and return to my equation.

E + S = ?

Variable T (Tyler) = safe, nice, uncomplicated But adding T doesn't solve for E + S It just makes everything messier

My phone lights up with Instagram notifications. Without thinking, I open it.

Ethan posted a story from practice. He does look rough—tired, distracted. In the video, someone (sounds like Marcus) is chirping him about missing an easy shot. Ethan just shakes his head, that self-deprecating smile that means he's actually upset but hiding it.

I watch it three times before I realize what I'm doing and throw my phone across the room.

Sunday at The Forks

I arrive at The Forks five minutes late, partly because of traffic, mostly because I sat in my car for ten minutes trying to figure out what to say.

Ethan's already there, sitting on our bench—the one by the river where we used to meet as kids, where we found each other again this year, where everything got complicated. He's wearing his navy winter coat, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly blue, and when he sees me, his whole face changes—relief and hurt and something else all mixed together.

"You came," he says when I sit down, leaving careful space between us.

"I said I would."

"Yeah, but lately..." He trails off.

Lately I've been a disaster of a human being. Yeah, I know.

"I'm sorry," I start, but he cuts me off.

"Stop apologizing and just tell me what's going on. Please. Because I'm going crazy trying to figure out what changed."

The river's partially frozen, that weird in-between state where water still moves under ice. Kind of like us—everything looks solid from the outside but underneath it's all currents and danger.

"Your parents—" I begin.

"Of course this is about my parents." He sounds exhausted. "What did they do now?"

"Nothing. Yet. But Jordan said—" I stop. I'm not supposed to know what Jordan knows.

"Jordan said what?"

"That they're planning something. To separate us. That they see me as a... distraction."

Ethan's quiet for a moment. Then: "So your solution is to do their work for them? Push me away before they can?"

When he puts it like that, it sounds stupid.

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? From my parents? Sophie, I've been dealing with them my whole life. I don't need protection."

"From having to choose. Between me and hockey. Between what you want and what your future needs."

"What if they're the same thing?"

"They're not. They can't be. You're leaving in a month—"

"Five weeks. And actually, it got pushed to January 4th because of playoffs."

"Okay, five weeks. Same difference. You'll be in Michigan, I'll be here, and long distance doesn't work, especially when you need to focus on hockey and I need to focus on nationals and college apps and—"

"So you decided to end it before it started? Without talking to me?"

"There's nothing to end. We're friends."

The word hangs between us like a lie we're both supposed to pretend is true.

"Right. Friends." He turns to look at me fully. "Is that why you can't look at me anymore? Why you're sitting as far away as physically possible? Why you're dating Tyler?"

"I'm not—we had one coffee date."

"You went to his game Friday."

"As friends."

"Sophie." He says my name like it hurts. "Please stop lying to me."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're lying to me, to Tyler, to yourself. And I don't understand why."

Because if I tell the truth, everything falls apart. Because your parents have money and lawyers and power. Because I'd rather hurt now when we can still salvage friendship than later when we'll hate each other.

"It's complicated," I say weakly.

"Everything's complicated. That doesn't mean you run from it."

"Says the guy whose parents are literally sending him to another country—"

"Another state," he corrects.

"Whatever. They're removing you from the situation. How is that not running?"

"Because I don't have a choice. You do."

"No, I don't. Don't you get it? Your parents will never accept me. They'll make your life hell, threaten your hockey, pull funding—"

"Let them try."

"Ethan—"

"No, I'm serious. Let them try. What are they going to do? Stop paying for hockey? Fine, I'll get a job. Not pay for college? I'll get scholarships. They don't own me, Sophie."

"They own your future."

"They own the future they planned. Not the one I want."

We sit there, the winter sun already starting to set even though it's barely 4 PM. Winnipeg winters are brutal like that—darkness coming early, cold that seeps into your bones, everything trying to force you inside, away from hard conversations.

"Two weeks ago," Ethan says quietly, "at Jordan's party. When we were studying but really just talking. You laughed at something I said—I don't even remember what—but you laughed and looked at me and for a second I thought... I thought you felt it too."

"Felt what?"

"This. Whatever this is. Because I know we keep saying friends but Sophie, friends don't—" He stops, frustrated. "I don't look at Jordan the way I look at you. I don't think about Maya at 2 AM. I don't feel like I can't breathe right when Alex is sad."

My heart is doing dangerous things. "Ethan—"

"And I think—I hope—you feel something too. But instead of talking about it, you're pushing me away and dating someone else and acting like none of this matters."

"It matters," I whisper. "It matters too much. That's the problem."

"How is that a problem?"

"Because when you leave—"

"If. If I leave."

I look at him. "What?"

"I haven't decided if I'm going to prep school. The deadline to confirm isn't until December 20th."

"But... your parents—"

"Will be furious. Yeah. But it's my life, Sophie. My choice."

"You can't give up prep school. The exposure, the training, the scouts—"

"I'd be giving up one path. There are others. Plenty of NHL players didn't go to prep school."

"Your parents will—"

"What? Disown me? Doubt it. I'm their only investment." His smile is bitter. "They'll be angry, they'll threaten things, but eventually they'll adjust. They always do when they realize they can't control something."

"This is crazy. You can't throw away your future for—"

"For you?" He moves closer, and I forget how to breathe. "Sophie, I'm not throwing anything away. I'm choosing what matters."

"Hockey matters. Your career—"

"Will still exist whether I go to prep school or not. But this—us—if I leave now, if we don't even try, I'll regret it forever."

"There is no us," I say, but my voice shakes.

"There could be."

We're close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, smell his cologne mixed with winter air, feel the warmth radiating off him in the cold.

"Ethan..."

"Tell me you don't feel anything," he says. "Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing, and I'll stop. I'll go to prep school, I'll leave you alone, I'll watch you date Tyler and pretend it doesn't kill me. But you have to mean it."

I open my mouth to lie. To say the words that will set us both free, that will make everything simple and safe and wrong.

But I can't.

Because I do feel something. Everything. Too much.

"I can't," I whisper.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you I feel nothing. But I also can't—we can't—your parents—"

"Forget my parents. For one second, forget them. What do you want?"

You. Always you. Since we were nine and you called me Watson. Since you came back into my life. Since every moment in between.

But I can't say that. Because Ethan doesn't know what his parents are capable of. He doesn't know about the conversation Jordan overheard, about the threats, about how far they're willing to go.

And if I tell him, he'll confront them. He'll blow up his life for me. And in five years, ten years, he'll resent me for it.

"I want you to be happy," I say finally.

"That's not what I asked."

"That's my answer."

He stares at me for a long moment. Then stands up, hands shoved in his pockets.

"You know what? Fine. Date Tyler. Pretend this is nothing. But don't lie to yourself about why you're doing it." He starts to walk away, then turns back. "And Sophie? When you realize pushing me away doesn't actually protect either of us, I'll still be here. But I won't wait forever."

He leaves me on the bench, in the cold, watching the river fight against freezing.

After - The Witness

I sit there for another ten minutes, trying to process everything, when footsteps crunch on the snow behind me. I turn, expecting—hoping—it's Ethan coming back.

It's Robert Hayes.

My blood freezes colder than the river.

"Sophia," he says, that professionally pleasant voice that probably works great in boardrooms. "I thought that was you."

"Mr. Hayes." I stand, ready to leave, but he moves slightly, blocking the path.

"I saw Ethan leave. He seemed upset."

There's something in the way he says it—satisfaction, maybe? Like this is exactly what he wanted.

"We were just talking."

"Of course." He looks at the bench, the river, the spot where so much has happened. "You know, I remember when Ethan was younger, he'd come here to think. Always so emotional, that one. It's why hockey is good for him—channels all that feeling into something productive."

I don't respond. Anything I say will be wrong.

"I heard you're dating Tyler Kim now," he continues. "Good choice. He's going places—UBC, strong hockey program, academic scholarship too. The kind of boy with a real future."

The implication is clear: unlike you and Ethan together.

"Tyler's nice," I manage.

"Nice. Yes." Robert studies me like I'm a problem to be solved. "You know, Sophia, I actually admire what you're doing. It takes maturity to recognize when something isn't going to work. To step aside gracefully."

"I'm not—"

"Aren't you? Moving on with Tyler, giving Ethan space to focus on his career. It's very considerate." He smiles, and it's worse than anger would be. "His mother and I appreciate it. We know these teenage feelings can be so... intense. But you're being practical. Logical. I respect that."

He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly what I'm doing and why.

"I should go," I say.

"Of course. Oh, but Sophia? One more thing." He pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. It's from Jordan's party—Ethan and me looking at each other, that moment he talked about when I laughed and forgot to guard my expression. "Amazing what people post on social media these days. This was on someone's story. Maya's, I believe?"

My stomach drops. "You're watching Maya's Instagram?"

"Oh, not regularly. But when it concerns my son's future, I pay attention." He puts the phone away. "The thing is, Sophia, these feelings—they're obvious. To everyone. Which means if you suddenly pulled away, if you're dating someone else now, there must be a reason. A logical reason."

He knows. He knows I know about their plans.

"I really need to go—"

"The prep school decision is December 20th," he says, like I haven't spoken. "If Ethan chooses not to go—if something or someone influences that decision—well. That would be unfortunate. For everyone involved."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact. Ethan's future has been carefully planned. Hockey, university, the connections he'll need. One impulsive decision now could unravel everything. But I'm sure you understand that. After all, you have your own future to think about. MIT, wasn't it?"

How does he know about MIT?

"That's none of your—"

"Everything concerning my son is my business. And you, Sophia, have been concerning me for months." He steps aside, finally letting me pass. "But it seems you're making better choices now. Tyler Kim. Winter formal. Moving on. Very mature."

I start walking away, fast, but his voice follows me.

"Oh, and Sophia? I'd hate for Ethan to know we talked. He's so reactive about these things. Might do something impulsive like refuse prep school out of spite. And that would be tragic, wouldn't it? All those opportunities, lost because of a misunderstanding."

I don't respond. I just walk faster, then run when I'm out of sight, my boots slipping on ice, my breath coming in gasps that have nothing to do with exertion.

When I reach my car, I lock the doors and sit there shaking.

Robert Hayes knows exactly what I'm doing. He's watching us through Instagram. He's making threats wrapped in polite conversation.

And now I understand with horrible clarity: if I tell Ethan about this conversation, he'll explode. He'll confront his father, refuse prep school, destroy his future out of anger and protection and love.

Which means I can never tell him.

Which means I have to keep pushing him toward Tyler, toward moving on, toward the life his parents planned.

My phone buzzes.

ethan: im sorry about earlier

ethan: i shouldn't have pushed

ethan: can we talk tomorrow?

I stare at the messages through tears.

me: we said everything already

me: please just let me figure this out

ethan: figure what out?

ethan: sophie what aren't you telling me?

Everything. So much everything.

me: nothing. i just need space.

ethan: from me specifically? or from everyone?

ethan: because you seem fine with tyler

That lands like a slap, which is probably what he intended.

me: that's not fair

ethan: nothing about this is fair

He's right. None of this is fair. Not him being controlled by his parents, not me being threatened, not Tyler being used as a shield, not any of it.

me: i have to go

ethan: sophie wait

But I turn off my phone and drive home, Robert Hayes's words echoing: Very mature.

Monday's Consequences

Monday morning comes too fast. I've had exactly three hours of sleep, my eyes are puffy from crying, and I have to face both Tyler and Ethan at school.

Maya corners me at my locker before first period.

"Okay, what the hell happened yesterday? Ethan looks like death, you look worse, and Tyler keeps asking if you're okay."

"Nothing happened."

"Sophia Chen, I've been your best friend for two years. I know your nothing-happened face. This is not it."

"Can we just... not? Please? I can't do this before physics."

She studies me, then pulls me into a hug. "Whatever it is, I'm here. Even if you're being stupid about it."

"Thanks. I think."

Physics is torture. Ethan's in his usual seat, I'm in the back, and Mr. Hendricks is talking about collision theory which feels like the universe personally attacking me. Every example is about things crashing into each other, transferring energy, changing direction.

I risk one glance at Ethan. He's staring at his textbook, but I can tell he's not reading. His jaw is clenched, that muscle jumping the way it does when he's upset.

My phone vibrates.

tyler: hey! you still good for my game friday?

tyler: also winter formal tickets go on sale tomorrow

tyler: should i get ours?

The timing is excruciating. I can practically feel Ethan tense from across the room, like he somehow knows what those messages say.

me: yes to both

tyler: awesome! what color dress?

me: haven't gotten one yet

tyler: well let me know so i can match

tyler: or not match if matching is weird

tyler: i have no idea how this works lol

Despite everything, I almost smile. Tyler's trying so hard to make this easy, to be the uncomplicated choice.

me: matching is nice

tyler: cool! also fair warning my mom wants to take 8million photos

tyler: she's already planning the whole pre-formal thing

tyler: you can say no if that's too much

It is too much. Everything is too much. But I can't explain that without explaining why.

me: sounds fun. moms love photos

After class, I bolt before Ethan can corner me. But Tyler's waiting by my locker, holding two coffee shop cups.

"Figured you might need caffeine," he says, handing me one. "Vanilla latte, right?"

"You didn't have to—"

"I know. But you seemed stressed yesterday, and I thought..." He shrugs. "I don't know. Coffee makes things better?"

He's so genuinely sweet it makes me want to cry.

"Thanks, Tyler. Really."

"Also, totally no pressure, but some of the team is going to Danny's after the game Friday. You could come? Bring Maya and whoever?"

"Sure. That sounds good."

He lights up. "Yeah? Cool. I should warn you, though, the guys can be... a lot. Like, imagine puppies. But six feet tall and constantly hungry."

"I think I can handle puppies."

We're laughing when Ethan walks by. He doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge us, just keeps walking. But Tyler notices.

"Is he okay?" Tyler asks. "He's been off all week."

"I don't know," I lie.

"Maybe it's the prep school thing. That's got to be stressing him out."

"Yeah, maybe."

Tyler looks like he wants to say something else, but the warning bell rings.

"See you at lunch?" he asks.

"Actually, I have to work on my English essay in the library."

"Oh. Okay. Tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

He squeezes my shoulder—that casual affection that should mean something but doesn't—and heads off.

I don't go to the library. I go to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall and try to remember how to breathe.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Smart choices, Sophia. Keep it up. -R.H.

Robert Hayes has my number. Robert Hayes is texting me.

I delete the message immediately, but the damage is done. He's watching. He knows about Tyler, about the distance I'm maintaining, about all of it.

There's no way out of this that doesn't end with someone getting hurt.

The question is whether it's going to be Ethan, Tyler, or me.

Or knowing my luck, all three.

Chapter 3: CHAPTER 3: COMPLICATIONS

College Applications

December 15th. MIT's early action deadline is today at 11:59 PM, and I'm sitting at my desk staring at the Common App essay that I've rewritten twelve times and still hate.

Prompt: Describe a time when you faced an ethical dilemma. How did you resolve it, and what did you learn from the experience?

I have 647 words about authenticity and truth and making hard choices. It's well-written, properly structured, hits all the right notes about personal growth and self-reflection.

It's also complete bullshit.

Because here's what I didn't write: I'm currently lying to a genuinely nice person about my feelings while pushing away someone I care about to protect them from their parents' expectations. I'm pretending I can logic my way out of emotions, that noble sacrifice makes me a good person, that doing the "right thing" feels anything other than devastating.

That's my actual ethical dilemma. But you can't write that in a college essay.

My phone buzzes. Maya: how's the essay going?

ME: terrible. i hate everything ive written

MAYA: you literally had mr peterson call your writing "remarkably insightful" last week

ME: that was history class. this is different

MAYA: its all just writing. stop overthinking and submit the damn thing

Easy for her to say. She already submitted all her applications two weeks ago—art schools that want portfolios and passion, not perfect essays about ethical dilemmas.

I read through my essay one more time, change a semicolon to a period, change it back, and finally hit submit at 11:47 PM before I can talk myself out of it.

There. MIT, Caltech, Cornell, Princeton—all submitted.

Now I just have to wait until spring to find out if any of them want a girl who's excellent at physics and terrible at being honest.

I close my laptop and grab my phone. Three missed messages from Tyler, two from Jordan, and a notification that Ethan posted on Instagram—a photo of his team after practice, everyone exhausted and laughing. He's in the back, and he's not laughing.

I close Instagram without liking it.

Winter Formal Preparation

"What about this one?"

Maya holds up a dress in deep emerald green, floor-length, with a slit up one side that seems structurally ambitious.

"That's basically held together by hope and strategic tape," I say.

"It's fashion."

"It's a drafting hazard."

We're at the mall—Maya, her mom (acting as official fashion consultant), and me, trying to find dresses for winter formal. The dance is tomorrow night, and I've been avoiding this shopping trip for two weeks until Maya literally showed up at my house this morning and refused to leave without me.

"You need to actually pick something, Sophia," Mrs. Foster says, flipping through the rack with the practiced efficiency of someone who's been shopping with Maya for seventeen years. "The formal is tomorrow."

"I'm aware."

"Then be aware that being indecisive is still making a choice." She pulls out a dress in midnight blue. "This one. Try it."

It's simpler than Maya's choice—fitted at the top, flowing at the bottom, with thin straps and a back that dips lower than anything I'd normally wear. When I come out of the dressing room, Maya's mom gets that look that all moms get when their children's friends do something that meets approval.

"That's the one," she says.

I look at myself in the mirror. The dress is objectively beautiful—the blue makes my eyes look darker, the cut is flattering without being uncomfortable. I look like someone who belongs at a winter formal with a sweet hockey player who thinks I'm easy to talk to.

I look like someone I don't recognize.

"I don't know," I start.

"We're getting it," Maya declares. "No more indecision. This is the dress, those shoes, done."

Thirty minutes later, I'm the owner of a midnight blue dress, silver shoes I'll definitely twist my ankle in, and a sense of impending doom I can't quite shake.

"You're being weird again," Maya says as we're having lunch in the food court.

"I'm not being weird."

"You've been staring at your phone for five minutes without actually looking at anything on it."

I put my phone down. "Tyler asked what color my dress is. For the corsage."

"And?"

"And I told him blue."

"That's... good? That's what you're supposed to do?"

"I know."

"So why do you look like you're about to cry?"

I don't have a good answer for that. Or I do, but it's too honest: because getting a corsage makes this real in a way that going to coffee and holding hands at a movie isn't. Because Tyler's being thoughtful and perfect and I'm still thinking about someone else.

"Just stressed," I say. "Applications, regionals coming up, finals next week."

Maya doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go.

My phone buzzes. Tyler: blue. got it. pick you up at 7 tomorrow?

ME: sounds good

Then, before I can stop myself, I open Ethan's contact. Our last conversation was three days ago, his message I never responded to: we need to talk. please.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I type: hey

Delete it.

Type: are you going to formal tomorrow?

Delete it.

Type: i miss talking to you

Delete it.

Finally, I just close the messages and put my phone away.

"You know what you need?" Maya says. "You need to stop thinking for like, five consecutive minutes. Just exist. Be present. Enjoy tomorrow."

"I don't know how to stop thinking."

"I know. That's your whole problem." She steals one of my fries. "But try. For me. For yourself. For Tyler, who's a genuinely nice human being who doesn't deserve you being mentally checked out the entire formal."

She's right. She's absolutely right.

So why does trying to be present feel like lying?

Winter Formal

Saturday, December 16th, and my mom is taking approximately seven thousand photos of me in my dress before Tyler even arrives.

"Mom, please. This is excessive."

"This is your first formal. I'm allowed to be excessive." She adjusts the camera angle. "Turn slightly to the left. Perfect."

My dad's watching from the doorway, looking vaguely confused by the entire concept of winter formal. "In China, we didn't have dances in high school."

"In China, you were too busy studying eighteen hours a day," Mom says without looking up from her camera.

"Exactly. Much more reasonable."

The doorbell rings at exactly 7:00 PM, because Tyler is nothing if not punctual. Dad answers it while I'm still trying to get Mom to put the camera away.

"Mr. Chen, Mrs. Chen, nice to meet you." Tyler's voice carries from the entryway. "I'm Tyler Kim. Here to pick up Sophia."

He's wearing a suit—navy blue, with a tie that I realize with surprise matches my dress almost perfectly. His hair is styled instead of his usual casual mess, and he's holding a corsage box nervously.

"Sophia," he says when I come downstairs, and his smile is immediate and genuine. "You look amazing."

"Thanks. You too. I mean, you look good too."

Real smooth, Sophia.

He opens the corsage box—white roses with blue ribbon, simple and pretty. When he slips it onto my wrist, his hands are gentle and I feel absolutely nothing except guilt that I feel nothing.

Mom takes another thousand pictures of us together—Tyler standing awkwardly, me trying to smile naturally, both of us looking like we're posing for the world's most wholesome stock photo about teen romance.

"Have fun," Mom says as we're finally leaving. "Be safe. Text me when you get there."

"And when you leave," Dad adds. "And if anything seems wrong."

"Dad, it's a school formal. In a hotel ballroom. What's going to go wrong?"

Famous last words, apparently.

Tyler drives us to the Fairmont—the fancy hotel downtown where the school rented a ballroom. The whole entrance is decorated with white lights and fake snow and silver streamers that are probably supposed to look elegant but mostly look like someone attacked a craft store.

"Ready?" Tyler asks as we're walking in.

"As I'll ever be."

Inside, the ballroom is transformed—more lights, more decorations, a DJ set up at one end and tables scattered around the edges. It's already crowded, people in suits and dresses, everyone looking simultaneously excited and awkward.

I spot Maya immediately—she's wearing a burgundy dress that's somehow elegant and bold at the same time, and she's standing with Jordan, who looks uncomfortable in his suit.

"Soph!" she calls, waving us over. "You look incredible!"

"So do you."

"I know." She grins, then looks at Tyler. "Nice tie coordination."

"Right? We didn't even plan it." Tyler's hand finds my lower back, a casual gesture that probably looks natural to everyone else but makes me hyperaware of where we're standing, how close he is, how my body doesn't lean into his touch the way it should.

The four of us talk for a while—Maya and Jordan are doing their usual dance of almost-flirting but not-quite-committing, Tyler's making jokes that actually land, and I'm trying to be present like Maya said. To enjoy this moment instead of overthinking it.

Then I see him.

Ethan, across the ballroom, in a black suit that fits perfectly and makes him look older somehow, more dangerous. He's with a girl—tall, blonde, wearing a red dress. I recognize her vaguely from AP Lit. Sarah something.

They're not holding hands, but they're standing close enough that they came together.

My stomach drops.

The room suddenly feels too hot, too crowded, too much. I can't breathe properly and my heart is doing this stuttering thing that has nothing to do with Tyler's hand still resting on my lower back.

"You okay?" Tyler asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just warm. It's warm in here."

"Want to get some air?"

I should say no. I should stay here and dance with my date and stop looking across the ballroom at someone else's date.

But I nod, and we head out to the hotel's terrace—a covered outdoor space with heaters and city lights visible beyond. It's freezing, but the heaters make it bearable, and there are a few other couples out here talking quietly.

"Better?" Tyler asks.

"Yeah. Thanks."

We stand at the railing, looking out at downtown Winnipeg lit up for Christmas. Tyler's quiet for a moment, then: "Can I ask you something?"

My heart rate picks up. "Sure."

"Is this okay? Us, I mean. Because you seem..." He pauses, searching for words. "You seem like you're somewhere else."

I want to lie. To tell him everything's fine, that I'm just stressed about school, that I'm having a great time.

But Maya's voice is in my head: be honest.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "You're right. I've been distracted."

"Is it the college stuff?"

"Partly."

"What's the other part?"

I look at him—at his genuine concern, his patient expression, the way he's trying so hard to understand. He deserves better than my half-truths.

"There's someone else," I say, and the words feel like confession. "Not—I'm not seeing anyone else. But there's someone I have... history with. Feelings I'm trying to figure out."

Tyler's quiet for a long moment. "Hayes?"

I blink. "How did you—"

"The way you look at each other. Or don't look at each other, which is somehow more obvious." He leans against the railing. "He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot. And at study group, the way you both act around each other..." He trails off. "I'm not blind, Sophia."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Said yes when I asked you to formal? Probably not." But his tone isn't angry, just resigned. "But you did, and we're here, so. What now?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to be with him?"

Yes. No. Maybe. It's complicated.

"He's leaving in two weeks," I say instead of answering. "Prep school in Michigan. And his parents don't approve of us being together anyway."

"So you're dating me instead?"

"No. I mean—that's not why I said yes. You're great, Tyler. Really. You're funny and smart and kind, and on paper we make perfect sense."

"But in reality?"

"In reality, I can't stop thinking about someone else. And that's not fair to you."

Tyler's quiet again, and I brace myself for anger or hurt or disappointment. But when he speaks, his voice is gentle.

"I appreciate you being honest." He turns to face me fully. "For what it's worth, I like you, Sophia. I think you're brilliant and interesting, and in a different situation, I'd probably be trying really hard to change your mind. But I'm not going to compete with someone you've known since you were kids."

"Tyler—"

"It's okay. Really." He manages a small smile. "Can I give you some advice though?"

"Sure."

"Whatever's complicated between you and Hayes? It's only as complicated as you make it. Yeah, he's leaving. Yeah, his parents are controlling. But you're both smart enough to figure it out if you actually try." He pushes off the railing. "Don't waste time being noble when you could just be honest."

It's almost exactly what Maya said.

"Can we still finish the formal?" I ask. "As friends?"

"We can finish as friends." He offers his arm. "Come on. Let's go make the most of our matching outfits before this hotel kicks us out."

We go back inside, and something's shifted—the tension that's been there for two weeks is finally gone. We're just two people at a dance, no expectations, no pretending.

We dance to a few songs—Tyler's a surprisingly good dancer, and when he spins me out and back in during some pop song I don't know the name of, I actually laugh.

"There it is," he says. "An actual genuine smile."

"Sorry I've been such a disaster of a date."

"You haven't been a disaster. Just distracted." He glances across the dance floor. "And speaking of distractions..."

I follow his gaze. Ethan and Sarah are dancing—a slow song now, her hands on his shoulders, his hands at her waist. They're talking about something, Sarah laughing at whatever he said.

It shouldn't hurt. I'm the one who pushed him away. I'm the one who started dating someone else first.

But it hurts anyway.

My body registers it like physical pain—chest tight, stomach knotted, fingers curling into fists at my sides. I can feel the exact distance between us across the dance floor. Thirty-seven feet. Might as well be miles.

"You should talk to him," Tyler says quietly.

"Now?"

"After. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever. But soon. Because whatever's between you two isn't going away just because you're both pretending it doesn't exist."

The song ends, and Tyler bows dramatically. "And on that note, I need to use the bathroom. Try not to stare too obviously while I'm gone."

He walks off, leaving me standing at the edge of the dance floor. The DJ's between songs, people moving between dancing and tables and the refreshment area.

I should find Maya. Or get water. Or literally anything except what I'm about to do.

But I'm walking across the dance floor anyway, weaving through people, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every step closer makes my skin feel more electric, like I'm approaching a live wire.

"Hey," I say when I reach them.

They both turn. Sarah smiles politely. Ethan looks surprised, then something else crosses his face—something that makes my breath catch.

"Sophia," he says, and my name in his voice still does that thing to my insides. "Hi."

"Can I talk to you? Just for a minute?"

Sarah glances between us, clearly picking up on something. "I'll go find my friends. Nice meeting you, Ethan."

She leaves, and then it's just us standing in the middle of a formal, surrounded by people and somehow completely alone.

"You look beautiful," Ethan says quietly.

"Thanks. You too. I mean, you look good. Not beautiful. Well, not that you couldn't be beautiful, but—"

"I get it." His smile is small, familiar, and it hits me like a physical blow how much I've missed that smile. "What did you want to talk about?"

Everything. Nothing. How much I've missed him. How wrong it felt pushing him away. How I don't know how to fix this mess I've made.

"I'm sorry," I say. "For the last two weeks. For being weird and distant and not just being honest with you."

"Why weren't you?"

"Because I was trying to make things easier. Your parents, prep school, all of it. I thought if I pulled away now, it would hurt less when you left."

"Did it work?"

"No. It hurt more."

The DJ starts another slow song. Around us, couples are pairing up, moving back onto the dance floor.

"Dance with me?" Ethan asks.

"I'm here with Tyler."

"Who's currently nowhere in sight and who you're clearly not actually dating based on the fact that you're standing here with me."

He's not wrong.

I take his offered hand, and the second our skin makes contact, I feel it everywhere. My whole nervous system lights up, every nerve ending suddenly alive and singing. He pulls me onto the dance floor, his hands finding my waist, mine settling on his shoulders, and the distance between us is smaller than it should be for people who are "just friends."

I can smell his cologne—woodsy and warm and so familiar it hurts. Can feel the heat of him through his suit jacket, can see the way his pulse is racing in his throat. We're both breathing too fast, both hyperaware of every point of contact.

"This isn't working," I say quietly.

"Dancing? Because I think we're doing okay."

"This. Us pretending there's nothing between us."

"There's definitely something between us." His voice is low, just for me, and it does things to my stomach. "There's been something between us since we were nine years old."

"Ethan—"

"Let me finish. Please." He takes a breath, and I watch his chest rise and fall beneath his shirt. "I know my parents are problems. I know I'm leaving in less than two weeks. I know long distance is hard and we're both busy and there are approximately seven thousand reasons this is complicated."

"So what do we do?"

"We stop pretending." His eyes meet mine, that impossible blue that I could drown in. "We stop trying to do the noble thing and just do the honest thing. Because Sophie, these last two weeks have been the worst two weeks I've had in years. And that includes my dad's lectures about my hockey career and that time I got food poisoning from gas station sushi."

Despite everything, I laugh. "Gas station sushi? Really?"

"Marcus dared me. It was a terrible decision." His hands tighten slightly at my waist, his thumbs tracing small circles that are making it hard to think. "But not as terrible as watching you date someone else and pretending I was fine with it."

"You were with Sarah tonight."

"As friends. She asked if I was going, I said probably, she asked if we could split an Uber. That's it." He pauses. "Were you jealous?"

"Maybe."

"Good. Because I was definitely jealous of Tyler Kim. Irrationally, completely jealous."

We're still dancing, moving in small circles, the song building around us. This close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the small scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell learning to skate as a kid. Can see the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious and terrifying and worth it all at once.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit. "You leave December 28th. Spring break is all we'd have until June. Your parents—"

"Will deal with it. We'll figure it out." His forehead touches mine, and the contact sends electricity down my spine. "Sophie, I don't have all the answers. But I know I don't want to spend the next two weeks avoiding you because we're both scared."

"I'm terrified," I whisper.

"Me too."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"What if it does?"

The song is ending. Around us, people are breaking apart, getting ready for whatever's next. But we stay like this for another moment, foreheads together, barely swaying, just breathing the same air.

Then someone's phone flashes nearby—taking a photo—and the spell breaks.

We step apart, but not far. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together, and that simple contact feels monumental.

"I should find Tyler," I say. "He deserves to know what I'm doing."

"Yeah. And I should probably tell Sarah I'm ditching her for the rest of the night."

"You're ditching her?"

"If you want me to? I'd rather spend the rest of formal with you than pretending to be on a date I'm not actually on."

I smile despite everything. "Let me talk to Tyler first. Make sure he's okay with it."

"I'll be right here."

I find Tyler at the refreshment table, drinking punch and talking to Marcus about something hockey-related. When he sees me, he excuses himself.

"So?" he asks.

"So... would you be okay if I spent the rest of the night with Ethan? I know that's terrible date etiquette—"

"Sophia. Go. It's fine." He grins. "I release you from date obligations. Be free. Be honest. All that important stuff."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. Plus, now I can go hang out with the team without feeling guilty about abandoning you." He pulls me into a quick hug. "For what it's worth? I think you guys will figure it out. You're both overthinking nerds who care too much about doing the right thing. It's annoyingly perfect."

I hug him back, grateful for his grace, his kindness, his ability to make this less painful than it could have been.

"Thank you, Tyler. For everything."

"Anytime. Now go get your hockey player."

I go back to where Ethan's waiting, and he looks up with a question in his eyes.

"Tyler's okay with it," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His smile is the first real one I've seen from him in two weeks. "Good. Because I'm not letting you out of my sight for the rest of the night."

"That might make bathroom breaks difficult."

"You know what I mean."

We spend the rest of formal together—dancing to slow songs and fast songs, getting terrible hotel cookies from the refreshment table, talking to Maya and Jordan (who both look absurdly pleased with this development), stealing moments at the edge of the ballroom where we can hear each other without shouting over the DJ.

It feels right in a way that nothing has felt right for weeks.

Every time Ethan's hand brushes mine, I feel it like lightning. Every time he leans close to say something in my ear, his breath on my neck makes my whole body go warm. We're not even doing anything dramatic—just existing in the same space, finally honest about what we want—but it feels revolutionary.

Around 10:30, people start leaving. Tyler finds us to say goodbye—he's getting a ride with some teammates, waves off my offer to drive him since we came together.

"I'll text you next week," he says. "We can study for Henderson's final."

"I'd like that."

He leaves, and then it's just scattered groups remaining. Maya and Jordan already left an hour ago. The DJ's packing up. The decorations somehow look sadder now, like the magic is wearing off.

"Want to get out of here?" Ethan asks.

"Where would we go? It's 10:30 on a Saturday night in Winnipeg in December."

"I have an idea."

The Parking Lot Conversation

Fifteen minutes later, we're in the hotel parking lot, standing by my car, and I'm realizing what's about to happen.

We're about to talk. Really talk. About all of it—the feelings we've been dancing around, the complications we've been avoiding, the two weeks until he leaves and what happens after.

"So," Ethan says.

"So."

We both laugh nervously.

"This is weird," I say. "We've never been weird."

"We've been weird for two weeks."

"Fair point."

Ethan leans against my car, looking up at the sky. It's clear tonight, stars visible despite the city lights, the kind of cold that makes your breath cloud instantly and your face hurt within seconds.

"I'm leaving December 28th," he says. "Dad's already got the flight booked, the housing arranged, the whole thing set up."

"I know."

"Spring break is March 10th. That's eleven weeks."

I knew it was going to be bad, but hearing the actual number makes it real. "That's a long time."

"Yeah." He looks at me. "But then I'm back for ten days. And then summer after that. It's not ideal, but it's not forever."

"Your parents—"

"Are going to have opinions. Lots of them. And we'll deal with them." His jaw sets in that stubborn way I remember from when we were kids. "I'm not giving up hockey. But I'm also not giving up you."

"What if you have to choose?"

"Then I choose both and figure out how to make it work." He reaches for my hand, and the contact grounds me. "Sophie, I've spent six years thinking about you. Six years wondering what happened to my best friend, if you still loved math, if you still made that face when you're concentrating. And then you showed up sophomore year, and it was like—"

"Like coming home," I finish quietly.

"Yeah. Exactly like that." His thumb traces circles on my hand, and I'm trying to memorize this feeling—the cold air, the warm touch, the way my whole body hums when he's near. "I'm not walking away from that because it's complicated. Everything worth having is complicated."

"What if long distance doesn't work?"

"Then we try anyway and at least we tried. But Sophie, we texted every single day for months before you even knew it was me. I think we can handle actual intentional long distance."

He's right. We've been doing a version of this already—the constant communication, the sharing everything, the way we gravitate toward each other.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"Okay, let's try. Let's figure this out. Let's stop being noble and just be honest." I step closer, close enough to feel his body heat in the frozen air. "I want this. You. Us. Whatever this is."

His smile is bright enough to light up the parking lot. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So can I kiss you now? Because I've been wanting to kiss you for approximately eight years and I'm running out of patience."

I laugh, and it feels like relief. "Yes. Yes, you can kiss you now."

"Finally."

He cups my face with both hands, his palms warm against my frozen cheeks. For a moment, we just look at each other—his eyes that impossible blue, his expression so open and wanting and real that it makes my chest ache.

"Sophia Chen," he whispers. "You're going to ruin me."

"Good," I breathe.

And then he kisses me.

The first touch of his lips is gentle, questioning, giving me time to change my mind. Instead, I grab the front of his jacket and pull him closer, deeper, everything I've been holding back for weeks pouring into this one moment.

He makes a sound low in his throat and his hands slide into my hair and oh. OH. This is what all the songs are about. This is why people write poetry and fight wars and do impossible things.

He tastes like hotel punch and wintergreen gum and something uniquely him. When his tongue touches mine, tentative and sweet, my knees actually buckle. He catches me, pressing me back against my car, and we're both laughing and gasping and kissing and it's messy and perfect and exactly right.

"God," he breathes against my mouth. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"Me too." My fingers are tangled in his hair and I can't seem to let go. "Since September. Maybe longer. Maybe forever."

"Definitely forever," he agrees, and kisses me again.

This time it's slower, deeper, more intentional. His hands frame my face like I'm precious, like I'm breakable, like I'm worth handling with care. My whole body is alive, every nerve ending firing, every sense overwhelmed by him—his smell, his taste, his warmth in the brutal cold, the way his heart is racing just as fast as mine.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. My lips feel swollen, electric. His eyes are so dark they're almost black, and he's looking at me like I've just rewritten the laws of physics.

"Wow," I manage.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice rough. "Worth the wait?"

"Worth everything."

We stand there in the cold, holding each other, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go. My face is buried in his chest, his arms wrapped around me, and I can hear his heart still racing.

"I don't want to go home yet," I whisper.

"Me neither."

"But my parents have a curfew and yours probably do too and it's freezing and—"

"I know." He kisses the top of my head. "But we have tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," I repeat, trying to make it sound like enough time when we both know it's not.

"We'll make them count," he promises.

We stand there for a few more minutes, stealing time, before finally admitting defeat to the cold and our curfews and reality. He kisses me three more times before I get in my car—once on the lips, once on my forehead, once on each cheek like he can't decide where he wants to kiss me most.

"Text me when you get home," he says.

"Ethan, I live ten minutes away."

"Text me anyway. I need to know you got there safe."

"You're ridiculous."

"You like it," he says, and he's not wrong.

I drive home with his taste still on my lips, his smell still on my clothes, my whole body still humming from his touch. When I pull into my driveway, I text him immediately:

ME: home safe. tonight was perfect

ETHAN: it really was. sleep well watson

ME: you too sherlock

I go inside where my parents are pretending they weren't watching from the window.

"Good night?" Mom asks.

"Complicated night. But good. Really good."

I go upstairs and change out of my dress, hanging it carefully because despite everything, it's the dress I was wearing when everything changed. When Ethan and I stopped pretending. When we finally admitted what we've both known for weeks—maybe months, maybe years.

I lie in bed staring at my ceiling, touching my lips where his mouth was, replaying every second of that parking lot kiss.

Two weeks. That's all we have before he leaves.

But for now, for tonight, I let myself just be happy.

Tomorrow I can worry about the complications.

Sunday Afternoon

The Forks at 2 PM on a Sunday is pure winter magic—families ice skating on the cleared paths, holiday music playing from somewhere, the smell of hot chocolate and beaver tails drifting from the kiosks. I'm sitting on a bench near the river, the same area where Ethan and I used to meet as kids, now frozen and covered in snow.

My phone buzzes. Ethan: where are you?

ME: the forks. why?

ETHAN: stay there. im coming

ME: why?

ETHAN: youll see

Twenty minutes later, he shows up in his winter coat and that ridiculous Beavers toque that Jordan got him as a joke. He's carrying two paper cups from the coffee kiosk nearby.

"Hot chocolate," he says, handing me one. "Extra marshmallows."

"You remembered."

"I remember everything about you."

He sits next to me on the bench, close enough that our thighs touch, and even through our winter coats I can feel the contact like heat. We drink our hot chocolate, watching people skate, just existing in the same space without tension or complications.

"So," Ethan says eventually. "Last night."

"Was perfect," I finish.

"It really was." He turns to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my stomach flip. "I can't stop thinking about kissing you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's actually becoming a problem. I was supposed to be studying for Henderson's final this morning and I spent two hours just thinking about your mouth."

I nearly choke on my hot chocolate. "Ethan—"

"Too honest?"

"No. Just... wow."

"You said we should be honest." He grins, that crooked smile that started everything. "So I'm being honest. I'm obsessed with kissing you. I want to kiss you right now. I want to kiss you for the next two weeks straight."

My whole body goes hot despite the -20°C temperature. "We're in public."

"So?"

"So there are like, fifty families around us."

"And?"

I look at him—at the smile playing at his lips, the way his eyes are bright in the winter sun, the small cloud of breath in the cold air. At the boy I've known since I was nine and somehow just figured out I'm in love with.

"You're ridiculous," I say.

"You like that about me."

"Debatable."

He sets down his hot chocolate on the bench, then takes mine and sets it down too. Then he's turning to face me fully, and my heart is racing because I know what's about to happen.

"Sophia Chen," he says, mock-serious. "Can I kiss you now? In front of all these families and the Christmas music and probably someone's grandmother?"

I laugh. "You're making it sound super romantic."

"I'm working with what I've got."

"Okay. Yes. You can kiss me now."

"Finally."

His hand comes up to my face, fingers trembling slightly as they touch my cheek. I can feel my heart hammering so hard he must hear it. The world narrows to just this—the clouds of our breath mingling in the cold, his eyes that impossible blue, his thumb tracing my jaw like he's memorizing the shape.

"Ready?" he whispers.

"I've been ready since September," I whisper back.

He leans in slowly, giving me time to change my mind, to pull away. Instead, I meet him halfway. The first touch of his lips is tentative, gentle, asking permission even as it happens. I answer by leaning in, my hand finding the front of his jacket, gripping the fabric to steady myself because my legs feel unreliable.

He tastes like hot chocolate and winter and possibility. His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer but still careful, still respectful of the space between us that's rapidly disappearing.

Someone nearby wolf-whistles. We both ignore them.

His tongue touches my bottom lip and I open for him and it's like the parking lot kiss but more—more public, more exposed, more we-don't-care-who-sees. My fingers are tangled in his coat and his hair and I can't get close enough, can't feel enough of him.

When we finally pull apart—seconds? minutes? I have no idea—his forehead rests against mine. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us grinning like idiots.

"I've wanted to do that since September," he whispers.

"I've wanted you to do that since September," I whisper back.

"What about since we were nine?"

"Definitely since we were nine."

We sit there for another hour, drinking cold hot chocolate, holding hands with our gloves on, making plans for the next two weeks. He has to tell his parents about us. I have to survive finals and badminton regionals. We both have to figure out how to do long distance when he leaves.

But right now, in this moment, everything feels possible.

My phone buzzes. Maya: DID YOU KISS HIM YET?

ME: maybe

MAYA: SOPHIA CHEN

ME: okay fine yes. we kissed

MAYA: FINALLY. jordan owes me $20

ME: you bet on us??

MAYA: everyone bet on you. maya put money on before christmas. i said yesterday. i won

I show Ethan the texts, and he's laughing.

"They bet on us?"

"Apparently we're very predictable."

"Or everyone saw what we were too scared to admit."

"That too."

We stay at The Forks until sunset, until the cold gets too brutal even with hot chocolate, until we both have to go home and face reality.

But for now, for these few hours, we're just two people who finally stopped pretending.

It's the best Sunday I've had in years.

Wednesday, December 20th - Study Group

Study group on Wednesday is different.

For one thing, Ethan and I show up together. For another, when we sit down on Jordan's couch, we sit next to each other instead of leaving deliberate space between us. His thigh presses against mine and I can barely remember my own name, let alone physics formulas.

Maya sees it immediately and grins so wide I'm worried her face will split.

"So," she says, drawing out the word. "Anything new to share with the group?"

"Maya," Jordan warns. "Let them be."

"I'm not doing anything! I'm just asking if there's any news!"

"We're together," Ethan says simply, his hand finding mine on the couch between us. "In case that wasn't obvious."

"It was extremely obvious," Marcus says from where he's sprawled on the floor. "You two have been doing the sad longing thing for weeks. This is way better."

"The sad longing thing?" I repeat.

"So much sad longing," Alex agrees. "It was painful to watch."

Tyler comes down the stairs at that moment, and there's a beat of awkwardness before he just smiles.

"Finally," he says, and his tone is genuine. "Now maybe Hayes will stop moping during practice."

"I don't mope," Ethan protests.

"You absolutely mope."

We settle into studying after that, but it's different now. Better. Ethan helps me with a calc problem, his arm along the back of the couch behind me, his fingers occasionally playing with my hair in a way that makes it impossible to concentrate. I explain a physics concept to Tyler, and there's no tension, just friends helping friends.

Around 8:30, Jordan's mom brings down pizza—apparently she's decided we need feeding—and we take a break to eat.

"So," Maya says, because apparently she can't help herself. "What's the plan? With prep school and everything?"

It's the question everyone's been avoiding asking.

"We're going to try long distance," I say. "He leaves on the 28th. Spring break is March. We'll figure it out."

"That's really mature of you both," Jordan says.

"Or really stupid," Marcus adds. "No offense, but long distance in junior year? That's brutal."

"We know," Ethan says. "But we're doing it anyway."

Tyler raises his pizza slice in a mock toast. "To stupid decisions and trying anyway."

"That's not inspiring," I say.

"It's honest."

We all clink pizza slices because we're ridiculous, and then someone brings up finals and we spend the next hour complaining about Henderson's calc test and Peterson's history final and trying to memorize physics equations.

It's normal. It's good.

It's everything I was trying to protect by pushing Ethan away, except better because we're not pretending anymore.

When study group ends, Ethan walks me to my car even though it's literally in Jordan's driveway.

"Eight days," he says.

"Until you leave?"

"Yeah." He wraps his arms around me, and I let myself sink into the hug, breathing in his smell, memorizing the feel of his heartbeat against my cheek. "That's eight days to spend time together before long distance starts. What do you want to do?"

"Survive finals?"

"Besides that."

"I don't know. Normal things. Study together, get coffee, exist in the same space without overthinking everything. Kiss you a lot."

"I can do that." He tilts my face up, kisses me slow and sweet. "Especially that last part."

We stand there for a moment, just holding each other in the cold.

"Hey," I say quietly. "Are you scared?"

"Terrified."

"Me too."

"But we're doing it anyway."

"We're doing it anyway."

He kisses me goodnight—longer this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me—and I drive home feeling like despite everything complicated ahead, we're finally moving in the right direction.

My phone buzzes at a stoplight.

ETHAN: thank you for trying. for giving us a chance

ME: thank you for not giving up. even when i was being stupid

ETHAN: you werent stupid. just scared

ME: same thing

ETHAN: not even close

I drive home with a smile on my face, for once not overthinking what comes next.

We have eight days. Then spring break. Then summer.

It's not perfect. But it's ours.

And that feels like enough.

Chapter 4: CHAPTER 4: NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION

Finals Week

The thing about having a boyfriend during finals week is that you're supposed to spend less time together, not more.

But Ethan and I are operating on a countdown clock—he leaves for Michigan on January 4th (pushed back from the 28th because of hockey playoffs), which means we have less than two weeks total. So we study together every day, our textbooks spread across coffee shop tables and library carrels and Jordan's basement.

We're making the most of limited time.

"Okay," Ethan says on Thursday, three days before Christmas. We're at The Daily Grind, allegedly studying for our respective finals. "If you have a ball rolling down a ramp, and the ramp angle is 30 degrees, and the ball mass is—"

"Five kilograms, I got it." I work through the problem, drawing force diagrams in my notebook. "The acceleration is 4.9 meters per second squared."

"Show off."

"You literally asked me to solve it."

"I wanted to see you work through it. It's impressive."

I look up from my notebook. "You're distracting me."

"You're already done with the problem."

"Doesn't mean I'm not distracted."

He grins and goes back to his calc homework, but his foot is still touching mine under the table. We've been like this all week—finding excuses to be near each other, stealing moments between study sessions, cramming in time like we can store it up for when he's gone.

My phone buzzes. Maya: hows studying? by which i mean hows NOT studying with your boyfriend

ME: were actually studying. hendersons final is tomorrow

MAYA: sure you are

ME: im solving physics problems right now

MAYA: uh huh. and im sure youre super focused and not at all distracted by his face

ME: his face is very distracting but im managing

MAYA: hopeless. both of you

She's not wrong.

Finals continue through Friday—calc in the morning (brutal but manageable), history in the afternoon (essay questions I definitely BS'd my way through). By the time school lets out for winter break, I'm exhausted and relieved in equal measure.

Ethan finds me at my locker.

"Survive finals?"

"Barely. You?"

"Henderson's calc final was designed to break spirits."

"Truth."

He leans against the locker next to mine, and I'm struck again by how easy this is. How after weeks of tension and avoiding each other, we've settled into something that feels inevitable and right.

"So," he says. "Maya's having a New Year's party."

"I heard."

"You going?"

"Probably. You?"

"Depends. Will you be there?"

I close my locker, smiling at him. "That's very codependent of you."

"I prefer 'romantically devoted.'"

"Big words for a hockey player."

"I'm a hockey player who reads." He pushes off the locker, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car."

"It's literally in the parking lot."

"Which is a whole thirty seconds away. I'm making the most of my time."

We walk out together, and the school is in that weird post-finals energy—everyone relieved and excited for break, making plans and exchanging gifts. Someone's set up a speaker in the parking lot playing Christmas music.

At my car, Ethan pulls out a small wrapped box from his backpack.

"What's this?"

"Christmas present. Open it now, because I won't see you until after."

"We're doing presents?"

"I'm doing a present. You don't have to reciprocate."

I open it carefully—inside is a silver bracelet, delicate and simple, with a small charm. When I look closer, I see it's a shuttlecock on one side and a hockey stick on the other.

"Ethan..."

"It's cheesy. I know it's cheesy. But I saw it online and thought—"

I kiss him, right there in the school parking lot with Christmas music playing and probably twenty people watching.

"I love it," I say when we break apart. "Help me put it on?"

He does, his fingers gentle on my wrist, and when it's clasped, I hold it up to the light. The charm catches the winter sun, spinning slightly.

"I have something for you too," I admit. "But it's at home. Can I give it to you at Maya's party?"

"You got me a present?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. Just happy." He kisses my forehead. "I'll see you New Year's Eve?"

"You'll see me before that. We have Christmas."

"Right. My family does dinner on Christmas Eve. You?"

"Christmas Day, usually. Lots of food, my mom's family on video call, the whole thing."

We make plans to text on Christmas, to see each other at Maya's party, to cram in as much time as possible before January 4th arrives.

But standing here in the parking lot, winter sun bright and cold around us, it feels like we have all the time in the world.

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve at the Chen house is quieter than usual—just me, my parents, and takeout from their favorite Chinese restaurant because my mom refused to cook after spending all week in her lab.

We're halfway through dinner when my dad asks: "So. This boy. Ethan?"

I nearly choke on my rice.

"Dad—"

"Your mother says he's the one from Kenora. Your friend from when you were young."

"He is."

"And now he's your boyfriend?"

Mom shoots him a look. "Wei, we talked about this. You were going to be casual about it."

"I am being casual! I'm asking casual questions!"

"You're interrogating."

"I'm being fatherly."

I hide my smile in my water glass. "Yes, Dad. Ethan's my boyfriend. We've known each other since we were nine. He's smart and kind and plays hockey. His family is... complicated. But he's a good person."

Dad considers this, eating in silence for a moment. Finally: "Does he treat you well?"

"Yes."

"Does he make you happy?"

"Very."

"Then that's acceptable." He goes back to his food like that settles it.

Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. "We're happy for you, sweetheart. Your dad's just being protective."

"I'm sitting right here," Dad protests. "I can hear you talking about me."

After dinner, we exchange gifts—books for me, new lab equipment for my mom (she requested it specifically), a fancy tea set for my dad. It's quiet and nice and comfortable.

Around ten PM, my phone buzzes.

ETHAN: merry christmas eve. my familys dinner was exactly as awkward as expected

ME: that bad?

ETHAN: dad spent twenty minutes lecturing about prep school opportunities. mom asked three times if im "focused on priorities." jordan was the only person acting normal

ME: im sorry

ETHAN: its fine. par for the course with the hayeses. hows your christmas?

ME: good. quiet. my dad gave me the "does this boy treat you well" speech

ETHAN: what did you say?

ME: that you're acceptable

ETHAN: ACCEPTABLE??

ME: im paraphrasing. i said you make me happy

ETHAN: thats better. though "acceptable" is hilarious

ME: my dads exact words were "thats acceptable." its a ringing endorsement by his standards

ETHAN: ill take it

We text for another hour—about Christmas movies and bad holiday music and whether fruitcake is actually cake or some kind of construction material. It's easy and comfortable and makes me forget for a while that in less than two weeks he'll be in Michigan and I'll be here.

Before bed, I pull out his Christmas present from where I've hidden it in my closet—a book on the physics of hockey I found at a used bookstore, with notes in the margins from whoever owned it before. Inside, I've written:

For when you need to remember that hockey is just applied physics. And for when you need to remember home. - S

It's not as nice as the bracelet he got me. But it's honest, and I think he'll like it.

I fall asleep to snow falling outside my window and the warmth of knowing someone's thinking about me across the city.

New Year's Eve - Before the Party

Maya's party starts at eight, but she demands I show up at seven to help set up.

"Set up what?" I ask when I arrive at her house, arms full of the chips and pop she requested I bring. "It's just your basement."

"It's not just my basement. It's a carefully curated party space."

"You put up string lights and called it decorating."

"It's ambiance!"

Jordan's already there, helping move furniture to make room for dancing. He waves when he sees me.

"She's been like this for an hour," he says. "Very intense about the ambiance."

"I heard that!" Maya calls from where she's adjusting speakers. "And yes, I'm intense. This is our first official party where Sophia has a boyfriend. That's a milestone."

"It's really not," I say.

"It absolutely is. You've been pining for weeks—"

"Two weeks—"

"—and now you're together and it's New Year's Eve and I'm creating the perfect atmosphere for romance."

"You know there are going to be like thirty people here, right?" Jordan points out.

"Thirty people, perfect ambiance, same thing."

We spend the next hour setting up—string lights (fine, it does add ambiance), a table for food and drinks, music queued up on Maya's carefully curated playlist. By 7:45, the basement looks less like someone's random party and more like an actual event.

"Okay," Maya says, surveying her work with satisfaction. "This is good. People will be impressed."

"People will be drunk on cheap punch and won't notice either way," Jordan says.

"You have no appreciation for my artistic vision."

"I have immense appreciation for your artistic vision. I helped hang those lights."

They bicker affectionately while I check my phone. Ethan texted ten minutes ago that he's on his way, bringing Marcus and Alex with him. Tyler's coming too—we've texted a few times since formal, friendly and comfortable now that we're not trying to date.

The first people arrive at 8:15—some of Maya's art class friends, a few people from badminton, a handful of Jordan's photography club crowd. By 8:45, the basement is full, music loud, everyone in that pre-party energy where everything's possibility and nothing's happened yet.

Ethan arrives at nine, and I feel it before I see him—that awareness of his presence, the way my attention shifts automatically. He finds me near the food table, and his smile is immediate and warm.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

He pulls me into a hug, and I can smell his cologne—woodsy and familiar, the scent that's become home. When we break apart, I'm hyperaware of people watching, of being that couple at the party.

"I have your Christmas present," I say.

"Now?"

"Why not now?"

We find a quieter corner—relatively speaking, the music is still loud—and I hand him the wrapped book.

He opens it carefully, and I watch his expression shift from curious to touched.

"The Physics of Hockey," he reads. "Soph, this is perfect."

"Read the inside."

He does, and something in his face softens. "Thank you. Really. This is—thank you."

"You're welcome."

He kisses me, quick but sweet, and someone nearby catcalls. We ignore them.

"I can't believe I'm leaving in five days," he says quietly.

"Let's not think about that tonight. Let's just... be here. Now."

"Deal."

We rejoin the party—dancing badly to songs neither of us know, eating too many chips, talking to people in that overlapping group way where conversations blur together. Tyler shows up with some of the hockey team, including a few guys I don't know. He waves at me across the room, and I wave back.

"That's not weird?" Ethan asks.

"What?"

"Tyler being here. After you guys dated."

"We went on like two dates. And he's friends with you. Why would it be weird?"

"I don't know. It feels like it should be weird."

"Only if we make it weird."

Tyler comes over a few minutes later, beer in hand even though we're supposed to be keeping this party non-alcoholic. Maya's parents are conveniently out of town, trusting us to be responsible, which clearly has different definitions.

"Hayes, Chen," he greets us. "Nice party."

"Maya decorated," I say.

"It shows. Very atmospheric." He takes a sip of his beer. "So. You two figure everything out?"

"Getting there," Ethan says.

"Good. You were both insufferable when you were apart."

"Gee, thanks."

"Just being honest." He grins. "Anyway, I'm going to go lose at beer pong. Have a good New Year."

He wanders off, and Ethan looks at me.

"He's really okay with this."

"He's really okay with it."

"Weird."

"Or healthy and mature."

"Also weird."

The party continues—people dancing, people talking, people playing the various games Maya set up. Around 10:30, someone suggests karaoke and suddenly we're all watching Marcus murder "Don't Stop Believin'" while Alex provides backup vocals that are somehow worse.

It's chaotic and fun and exactly what a New Year's party should be.

At 11:45, Maya turns down the music and announces: "Fifteen minutes till midnight! Get your resolutions ready!"

People start pairing off—couples finding each other, friend groups clustering together. Ethan's hand finds mine.

"Want to go outside?" he asks. "It's getting loud in here."

"It's probably -25 out there."

"So we'll freeze together."

We grab our coats and head out to Maya's back deck—a covered space with heaters that are running but barely making a dent in the cold. A few other people are out here too, but it's quieter than inside, more space to breathe.

The sky is clear, stars brilliant, the kind of cold that makes everything sharp and immediate.

"Five more days," Ethan says.

"You're breaking our deal. We're not thinking about that tonight."

"I can't stop thinking about it."

I lean against the deck railing, looking out at Maya's snow-covered backyard. "What are you going to do at prep school?"

"Play hockey. Go to classes. Try not to hate everything."

"Ethan."

"Sorry. That's not fair." He stands next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch. "I'm going to work hard. Impress the scouts. Make my dad's investment worth it."

"That sounds miserable."

"Little bit." He's quiet for a moment. "But I'm also going to text you every day. Video call when we can. Count down until spring break."

"March 10th."

"Ten weeks from tomorrow."

It sounds like forever and no time at all.

"What's your New Year's resolution?" I ask.

"Don't laugh."

"I won't laugh."

"To be honest. About what I want, what I'm feeling, all of it. No more pretending things don't matter when they do."

I look at him—at his profile in the deck lights, the way his breath clouds in the cold. "That's a good resolution."

"What's yours?"

"Same, I think. Stop trying to logic my way out of feelings. Stop being so scared of complications that I run from things worth having."

"We're very mature."

"Exceptionally mature."

"Or just tired of being miserable."

"That too."

Inside, people are starting the countdown. We can hear them through the sliding glass door: "Two minutes! Get your people!"

"You're my people," Ethan says.

"That was extremely cheesy."

"You loved it."

He's not wrong.

More people come outside as midnight approaches—Maya and Jordan together (finally), Tyler and some teammates, various couples and friend groups. Everyone's got that New Year's energy, that sense of endings and beginnings.

"One minute!" someone shouts.

Ethan turns to face me fully. "So. New Year's kiss. That's a thing, right?"

"It's definitely a thing."

"Just checking. Wanted to make sure I had permission."

"You have permanent permission at this point."

"Good to know."

The countdown starts: "Ten... nine... eight..."

"Seven... six... five..."

His hands find my face, gentle even through his gloves.

"Four... three... two..."

"Happy New Year, Sophie."

"One... HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

And then he's kissing me while everyone around us is cheering and noisemakers are going off and somewhere fireworks are starting up. It's cold and loud and perfect, his lips warm against mine, his hands framing my face like I'm something precious.

I pour everything into this kiss—all the fear about him leaving, all the hope for what comes after, all the love I haven't quite said out loud yet but feel in every cell of my body.

When we finally break apart, Maya's crying happy tears and hugging Jordan, Tyler's spraying cheap champagne like he won the Stanley Cup, and everyone's in that post-countdown chaos of celebrating and calling people and taking photos.

"Best New Year's ever?" Ethan asks.

"Definitely top three."

"What are the other two?"

"Not telling. You'll get competitive."

"I'm already competitive."

We stay outside for a while longer, even though the cold is brutal, because inside is too loud and out here is just us and a few other people who also wanted quiet. We talk about nothing important—favorite foods and worst movies and whether dogs or cats make better pets.

We don't talk about January 4th.

We don't talk about ten weeks apart.

We just exist in this moment, in the first hour of a new year, pretending we have all the time in the world.

Around 1 AM, people start leaving. Tyler finds us to say goodbye—he's getting a ride with Marcus and Alex.

"Good party," he says. "Good kiss. I saw it. Very cinematic."

"Were you watching?" I ask.

"Everyone was watching. You're very obvious people."

"Thanks, Kim," Ethan says, but he's smiling.

"Anytime, Hayes." Tyler pulls me into a quick hug. "Happy New Year, Sophia. Don't let him forget about you while he's in Michigan."

"I won't."

"Good." He heads out, and Ethan and I help Maya and Jordan clean up—collecting cups, taking down decorations, wiping down surfaces. It's quiet work, comfortable, the kind of thing friends do at the end of good nights.

By 2 AM, Jordan and I are the last people left. Maya's already half-asleep on the couch, insisting she'll clean more tomorrow.

"I should get home," I say. "My parents' curfew is flexible but not infinite."

"I'll walk you to your car," Ethan offers.

"It's literally in the driveway."

"Making the most of my time, remember?"

We walk out together into the brutal January cold—winter at its worst, the kind of temperature that makes your face hurt immediately. My car is covered in frost, and I have to scrape ice off the windshield before I can drive.

Ethan helps, both of us working with scrapers, our breath visible in the streetlight.

"Four more days," he says.

"I thought we weren't talking about it."

"That was yesterday. It's a new year now. New rules."

"What are the new rules?"

"We're honest. No pretending it's not hard. No trying to make it easier than it is." He finishes his side of the windshield and comes around to where I'm working. "I don't want to leave. I don't want to be apart for ten weeks. I don't want to miss seeing you every day."

"Ethan—"

"But I'm going anyway. Because I have to. Because my dad's already paid for everything and the team's expecting me and there's too much riding on this." He takes the scraper from my hands and sets it down. "So let's not waste these four days pretending it's fine. Let's just be together until I have to go."

My throat is tight. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

He kisses me again—slower this time, without the countdown pressure, just us in Maya's driveway at 2 AM on New Year's Day. It tastes like goodbye and promise and desperation all at once.

"Drive safe," he says when we break apart.

"Always."

"Text me when you get home."

"It's a ten-minute drive."

"Text me anyway."

I do, sitting in my driveway with the engine still running: home safe. today was perfect

ETHAN: it really was. sleep well watson

ME: you too sherlock

I go inside to my parents sleeping and my room exactly as I left it and my life that's about to get significantly more complicated.

But for tonight, I let myself just be happy.

Tomorrow I can worry about everything else.

January 2nd - 10 AM

I'm helping my mom take down Christmas decorations when the black Mercedes pulls into our driveway.

For a second, I think maybe Ethan's parents sent a car for him, that maybe he forgot something here. Then I see Robert Hayes get out—alone, no Caroline, no Ethan—and my stomach drops.

He's carrying an envelope.

"Sophia?" Mom calls from the living room. "Did you order something?"

"No."

The doorbell rings.

My dad answers it, and I hear voices in the entryway—Robert's smooth, professional tone, my dad's more cautious response. Then Dad's calling: "Sophia, can you come here please?"

I walk to the entryway like I'm walking to my own execution.

Robert Hayes looks exactly like Ethan will look in thirty years—same blue eyes, same sharp features, but colder somehow. More calculated. He's wearing an expensive coat and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sophia," he says. "I apologize for the intrusion. But I was hoping we could talk."

"About what?"

"About my son. And your relationship with him." He glances at my dad. "Perhaps we could speak inside? It's quite cold."

My parents exchange a look. Finally, Dad steps back. "Come in. Would you like tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

We end up in the living room—Robert on the armchair, my parents on the couch, me perched on the edge of the other chair like I'm about to bolt. Mom brings tea that no one drinks.

Robert doesn't sit. He stands by our window, looking out at our ordinary street like he's calculating property values. The envelope in his hand is crisp, expensive paper—the kind that makes important things feel more important.

"Your father tells me you've applied to MIT," he says conversationally. "Early action. Admirable. The acceptance rate is 4.8 percent this year. Even lower for international students, though I suppose you're not quite that."

"Mr. Hayes—"

"Did you know," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "that seventy-three percent of high school relationships end within the first three months of college? The statistics are even worse for relationships where one partner doesn't attend college at all. Say, if they're pursuing professional sports instead."

My stomach drops. "Why are you here?"

He turns from the window, and his smile is almost kind. Almost.

"I'm here because I see potential in you, Sophia. Real potential. The kind that shouldn't be wasted on a statistically doomed teenage romance." He sets the envelope on our coffee table. "MIT's admissions board was very impressed with your application. However, as you know, impressive isn't always enough. Sometimes one needs... an advocate."

"I don't understand—"

"I sit on the board of directors for three companies that fund MIT's engineering program. My recommendation carries significant weight. Enough weight to turn a maybe into a yes. Enough to include a full scholarship—not just tuition, but room, board, research stipends, even study abroad opportunities."

The room feels like it's spinning. My parents are both very still, watching him like he's a snake that might strike.

"You're trying to bribe me," I say.

"Bribe?" He looks genuinely offended. "I'm offering you an opportunity. One that has nothing to do with my son, actually. You've earned this on your own merits. I'm simply... facilitating."

"In exchange for what?"

He picks up a photo from our mantle—me at age twelve with a science fair trophy, gap-toothed smile, holding my project on renewable energy.

"You're a smart girl, Sophia. Smart enough to know that Ethan's hockey career is at a crucial juncture. Scouts are watching. Professional leagues are interested. But he's distracted. His performance is suffering. His coach has noticed. The scouts have noticed."

"That's not—"

"Three games with subpar performance since you two became involved. His shooting percentage down twelve percent. Penalty minutes up thirty percent." He sets the photo down precisely where it was, like he's rearranging chess pieces. "I've spent thirteen years and approximately four hundred thousand dollars developing his talent. Hockey equipment, training camps, private coaching, travel teams, nutritionists, sports psychologists. All leading to this moment—his chance at the NHL."

"You make him sound like an investment."

"Aren't all children investments? Your parents invested in your education. Those badminton lessons, the physics tutors, the academic summer camps. All hoping for a return—seeing you succeed, seeing you happy, seeing you fulfill your potential."

He's not wrong, and that's the worst part. My parents have sacrificed so much for my education—Dad working extra hours, Mom taking on additional research projects. All so I could have opportunities they didn't.

"What exactly are you asking?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

Robert opens the envelope, revealing the MIT letterhead that makes my heart stop. "I'm asking you to be practical. To think beyond the emotions of the moment. Ethan leaves for Michigan in two days. You have regionals, then nationals, then graduation, then MIT. Your paths are already diverging. All I'm suggesting is that you let them."

"You want me to break up with him."

"I want you to stop texting him. Stop calling. Stop giving him hope for something that will only hurt you both in the end. A clean break. He focuses on hockey, you focus on MIT. In five years, you'll both thank me."

"And if I say no?"

His smile doesn't change, but something in his eyes goes cold. It's like watching ice form on a window—beautiful and deadly.

"Then you apply to MIT like everyone else. Four point eight percent acceptance rate. Without my recommendation. Without the scholarship. And Ethan... well, Ethan will make his own choices, won't he? Perhaps he'll defer prep school to stay near you. Perhaps he'll lose focus entirely. Young love makes people do foolish things. I've seen it destroy promising careers before."

The threat is clear: I'm not just choosing my future. I'm choosing Ethan's too.

My dad stands abruptly. "I think—"

"Wait." My voice sounds far away. "The offer. What are the exact terms?"

Robert's expression shifts to something like satisfaction. "Guaranteed admission to MIT, early action decision by February first. Four years full tuition plus ten thousand dollars annual stipend for living expenses, research opportunities with leading researchers in theoretical physics, mentorship program, priority consideration for graduate programs. All expenses paid. All doors open."

He pulls out a second sheet of paper, sliding it across the coffee table.

"In exchange, you agree to terminate all romantic and personal contact with Ethan Hayes until May 2029. Four and a half years. No texts, no calls, no visits, no contact of any kind. After college graduation, you're both free to reconnect if you wish. But for these crucial years—his launch into professional hockey, your undergraduate education—you let each other focus."

"This conversation," he adds, standing to leave, "stays between us. You wouldn't want Ethan to think you only got into MIT because of connections. That would taint your entire academic career, wouldn't it? Every achievement would have an asterisk. Every success would have people wondering if you really earned it."

My mom makes a sound like she's been punched.

"You have twenty-four hours to decide, Sophia. The admissions board meets Friday morning. After that, decisions are final and the offer expires." He buttons his coat with precise movements. "Oh, and one more thing."

He pulls out a photograph from his pocket, places it face-down on top of the contract.

"I know about New Year's Eve. The kissing. The plans to try long distance. I've been watching—not personally, of course. But parents have resources." He heads toward the door, then pauses. "You're already hurting him, Sophia. His game performance proves that. The question is whether you'll stop now, when it can still lead to something good for both of you, or whether you'll drag it out until you destroy each other."

The door closes with a soft click.

The three of us stand in the living room, staring at the papers on the coffee table. I reach for the photograph with shaking hands, flip it over.

It's from New Year's Eve. Ethan and me kissing at midnight, his hands framing my face, my eyes closed, both of us lost in the moment.

Someone was watching. Someone Robert hired. The violation of it—the calculated cruelty—makes me want to throw up.

But worse is the contract beneath it. The MIT seal at the top. The dollar amounts spelled out in black and white.

Full ride. Four years. Everything covered. Research opportunities. Mentorship. Everything I've dreamed of since I was twelve years old, holding that science fair trophy.

For the price of everything I want.

"That man," my mother says finally, voice shaking with fury, "is a manipulative piece of—"

"Ling," Dad warns.

"I was going to say work. Manipulative piece of work."

I sink back into the chair, the photograph burning in my hands. "He's offering me MIT."

"He's blackmailing you," Mom corrects. "There's a difference."

"But he's offering me MIT. Full scholarship. Research opportunities. Everything I've been working toward."

"At the cost of your relationship with someone you care about," Dad points out.

"For four years. Not forever."

"Sophia." Mom sits next to me, taking both my hands. "Look at me. What do you want?"

"I want both. I want MIT and I want Ethan and I want everything to not be this complicated."

"I know, sweetheart. But that's not the question. The question is: if you had to choose, what would you choose?"

I look at the contract. Everything I've worked for. Four years of straight As, science competitions, research projects, studying until 2 AM. All of it could lead here, to MIT, to my dream school, to the future I've been planning since I was old enough to understand what physics was.

But it requires giving up Ethan. For four and a half years. No texts, no calls, no visits. Just... nothing.

By the time we're both free, we'll be different people. We'll have lived different lives. The boy I know now won't be the same person I find in 2029—if I find him at all.

"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know what to choose."

Mom pulls me into a hug. Dad joins us, both of them holding me while I try not to cry.

"You don't have to decide right now," Dad says. "You have twenty-four hours."

"That's not enough time."

"No. It's not." Mom's voice is tight with anger. "That's the point. He's forcing you to make an impossible choice under pressure."

I pull away, staring at the photograph. Ethan's face, so happy, so unguarded. Not knowing his father was already planning this. Not knowing that our perfect New Year's kiss was being documented as evidence against us.

"What do I do?"

Neither of them answers, because there is no good answer.

Twenty-four hours to decide between my dream school and someone I'm falling in love with.

Between the future I've always planned and the future I'm just starting to imagine.

Between everything I've worked for and everything I want.

And no matter what I choose, I lose something.

Later That Day

I don't tell Ethan.

I know I should. I know this decision affects him too, that he deserves to know his father is trying to pay me to break up with him.

But I can't. Not yet. Not while I'm still trying to figure out what to do.

Instead, I text: can we see each other tomorrow?

ETHAN: of course. your place or mine?

ME: the forks? noon?

ETHAN: perfect. everything okay?

ME: yeah. just want to see you

ETHAN: miss you too. even though we just saw each other last night

ME: that was 14 hours ago. basically forever

ETHAN: basically

I put my phone down and look at the envelope, which I've brought up to my room. It's sitting on my desk, next to my physics textbook and the acceptance letters from other schools that aren't MIT.

Twenty-four hours to decide.

I pick up my physics notebook, find a blank page, and start working through the problem like I always do:

Variable M = MIT (guaranteed admission, full scholarship, dream school)

Variable E = Ethan (relationship, feelings, history, future together)

Variable T = Time (4.5 years apart, no contact, separate lives)

Variable U = Unknown factors (will we even be the same people? will he wait? will I regret either choice?)

If M → must sacrifice E for time T

If E → must sacrifice M (possibly, unless I get in normally)

If neither → ??? (is there a third option?)

I work through scenarios, trying to calculate probabilities, trying to logic my way to the right answer.

But this isn't physics. There is no right answer. There's only choice.

Around dinner, Maya texts: so hows the post-new-years bliss?

I stare at that message for a long time.

Finally: complicated

MAYA: what happened?

ME: can i call you?

MAYA: obviously

I call, and the whole story spills out—Robert Hayes showing up, the envelope, the offer, the impossible choice. Maya listens without interrupting, which is unusual for her.

When I finish, she's quiet for a moment. Then: "Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"That's... that's actually insane. He's bribing you."

"With my dream school."

"Still a bribe." She pauses. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know that either."

"Okay. Let's logic this out." I can hear her moving around, probably pacing her room. "Scenario one: you take the offer. You get MIT, full ride, everything you've wanted. But you don't talk to Ethan for four years. How does that feel?"

I try to imagine it. Four years of college without him. No texts when something reminds me of him, no calls when I'm stressed about exams, no visits during breaks. Just nothing.

"Terrible," I admit. "It feels terrible."

"Okay. Scenario two: you reject the offer. You stay with Ethan, see where it goes. But you might not get into MIT on your own. How does that feel?"

I imagine getting rejection letters from MIT in April. Wondering if I made the right choice. Watching other people get opportunities I gave up.

"Also terrible."

"Great. So both options suck."

"Not helpful, Maya."

"I'm not trying to be helpful, I'm trying to be honest." She sighs. "Look, Soph. I can't tell you what to do. But I can tell you that relationships are a risk and dreams are a risk and literally everything is a risk. The question isn't which choice is safe. The question is which choice you can live with."

"I don't know."

"Then think about it. But also—talk to Ethan. He deserves to know what his dad's trying to do."

She's right. I know she's right.

But I'm not ready for that conversation yet.

That Night - 11 PM

I can't sleep. I've been lying in bed for two hours, staring at my ceiling, trying to decide.

My phone buzzes. Ethan: you awake?

ME: unfortunately

ETHAN: same. cant stop thinking about leaving in two days

ME: lets not talk about that

ETHAN: what should we talk about?

ME: anything else. favorite color. best pizza topping. whether time travel is theoretically possible

ETHAN: time travel is definitely possible. just impractical

ME: spoken like someone who didnt pay attention in physics

ETHAN: i paid attention. i just had a very cute tutor who was distracting

ME: your tutor was your teacher

ETHAN: i meant you. you were my unofficial tutor. and very distracting

Even through text, he can make me smile.

ETHAN: hey. real talk for a second?

ME: okay

ETHAN: i know long distance is going to suck. i know were both scared. but i meant what i said on new years. i want to try. with you. whatever that looks like

My throat is tight. I'm staring at his message, thinking about the envelope on my desk, the choice I have to make by tomorrow.

ME: i want to try too

ETHAN: yeah?

ME: yeah

ETHAN: good. because youre kind of my favorite person

ME: kind of?

ETHAN: definitely. youre definitely my favorite person

ME: thats better

We text until almost 1 AM—about nothing important, just existing in each other's presence through screens. Finally, he says goodnight and I'm alone again with my thoughts and my choice.

I get out of bed and walk to my desk. Pick up the contract.

I read it three times, trying to find a loophole, some way to have both things.

There isn't one.

At the bottom, a single line:

Acceptance of this offer requires written agreement to terminate all romantic and personal contact with Ethan James Hayes until May 2029.

Four and a half years. In writing.

I fold the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope.

Tomorrow I'm seeing Ethan at noon. Tomorrow I have to decide what to tell him, what to choose, what to do with this impossible situation his father created.

Tomorrow everything changes, no matter what I choose.

I set my alarm for 8 AM, turn off my light, and try to sleep.

But I lie awake for hours, watching shadows on my ceiling, trying to solve an equation that has no solution.

The photograph sits on my desk, face-down. I can't look at it.

Because every time I do, I see what I'm about to lose—either Ethan, or my dreams, or maybe both.

And I have no idea which loss I can survive.

EPISODE END

[TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 5: "STORM WARNINGS"]

What happens next:

Does Sophia tell Ethan about his father's ultimatum?

What does she choose: MIT with the scholarship, or Ethan?

Can they find a third option Robert Hayes didn't account for?

Ethan leaves for Michigan in two days—what does their goodbye look like?

And what will Robert do when he gets Sophia's answer?

Episode 5 Preview: The badminton nationals road trip becomes a storm-trapped crisis when Sophia's choice becomes public. Ethan finds out about his father's offer. Everything that's been building explodes. And the team bus breaking down in a blizzard is the least of their problems.

The countdown is on. The stakes have never been higher.

And sometimes, the right choice isn't the one that makes sense.

See you in Episode 5.