I stared deliberately into my lap, smoothing pink satin over and over again. The only sound was the rattling car and the faint sounds of some pop hit playing on the radio. I could feel Gavin's eyes on me, tension so palpable I could've sworn I was sweating my mascara off.

He was still so very Gavin. Because of course he was. And the mountains of history between us were piling up with every second that passed in this godforsaken car, and soon there wouldn't be any room to breathe.

I'd known Gavin my entire life. Like actually. I wasn't just saying that to say that. He was born exactly three months, four days, sixteen hours, and two minutes before me. Louisa was in the delivery room with my mother when she gave birth, Gavin strapped to her chest in a Baby Bjorn. There are pictures.

Louisa and my mom met in kindergarten. They were seated next to each other based on alphabetical happenstance (Gordon, Gideon), and had been joined at the hip ever since. Piper and Louisa. Pip and Lou. Partners in crime, the ultimate BFFs, essentially sisters. Their friendship was going on forty years, and it was still just as strong as ever. I often wondered how they planned it so perfectly. Moving back to Lovingston around the same time, getting pregnant together, and raising their kids together. Joint vacations, holidays, shared cabin up by the lake, the whole enchilada.

All this to say, Gavin was a constant in my world. We grew up together, just as our mothers had before us. We spent every waking moment with the other. There are millions of photos documenting our shared childhood. We were best friends. The sort of best friends that always know what the other one is thinking, and never have to worry about being alone. Then, in ninth grade, we became...more than best friends.

I exhaled slowly, making the mistake of looking up. I caught his eye briefly, and I wanted to shrivel up and die. The look on his face was positively withering.

"Something to say?" he asked, jutting his chin out at me. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. I was a fucking fish. Did he really want to talk to me? I couldn't imagine that. Why was he here? Why was I here? He was supposed to be taking an exam.

"Almost there, kids," Mr. Robertson said from the drivers seat, looking almost as uncomfortable as I felt.

"I didn't think you'd be here, obviously," I muttered, biting down on the inside of my cheek. The car slowed, and I could hear the cheers echoing from the football field. I felt sick.

"You could've asked," Gavin folded his arms. "Oh wait, that would require you to actually text me."

I shut my eyes, "I thought no contact was best."

"Best for who, Jules?" he shot back, eyes flashing. "For you?"

"Best for both of us, Gavin," I replied, keeping my voice even. "Clean break."

He scoffed bitterly, "Yes, you certainly made sure of that."

"Otherwise-"

"Otherwise I might've gotten an explanation for why you broke up with me, and wouldn't that just be ridiculous?"

"Can we not do this?" I hissed, as I watched Mr. Robertson pull into the parking lot. "Please," I straightened my sash, smoothed my hair. "Let's just get through the next hour, hand off the stupid fucking crowns and go our separate ways. Then you never have to see me again. Okay?"

"Is that what you want?" Gavin's eyes drew slowly up to mine, and I had to will myself not to look away. My heart thudded hard in my ears, and I took a deep, centering breath.

"Yes."

"Fine," he said sharply, finally looking away.

"Fine."

And with that, we stepped out of the car to face the sea of people who knew almost as much about us as we knew about each other.

He was still so beautiful. It was wholly unfair.

Gavin was always beautiful. Even as a kid. All curly hair and rosy cheeks and sweet mischief. He never even had an awkward phase. While the rest of us went through brace faces and acne and frizzy hair (a trifecta I experienced for all of middle school), Gavin just stayed beautiful as ever. He was a cute kid, and an even cuter teenager. He got tall and muscular, and he looked just like his mom. He always had. Olive skin, a killer bone structure, and long, dark lashes that I'd envied for years. And that smile. Damn that smile.

We headed out onto the field, the marching band playing a familiar fanfare that felt hollow now. Gavin walked beside me. Stupidly perfect in his blue suit. I'd picked that suit out for him. Had he gotten hotter? Was that possible?

His shoulders looked broader, and his hair was a little longer. I liked it. I'd always liked his hair long. When he buzzed it off as part of baseball hazing in sophomore year I'd refused to speak to him for three days.

This was infuriating. I had a boyfriend. An equally, or at least comparably hot boyfriend. Why was Gavin still allowed to affect me like this?

I saw the new king and queen standing on the podium, and my heart gave a twinge. It was Ella Jean and Marcus. I knew them well. They started dating after formal last year. They were sweet, co-presidents of yearbook club. Ella Jean and I had been friends. Or- friendly, at least. It was hard not to be in a town as small as ours. Marcus played basketball with Gavin. I used to sit with Ella Jean at games, yellow and green ribbons in our hair.

They waved at us, something like surprise, or maybe confusion passing over their faces. My stomach turned over as they shared a layered look. I could only imagine the whispers going on in the bleachers right then. Everyone knew by now. That Gavin and I were over. Done. Dead. Six feet under. And yet here we were, braving stadium lights, and pretending like everything was fucking fine. Getting through it.

If we could safely ignore each other for the rest of this godforsaken tradition, everything might just be okay. Maybe.

We waved back, waved to crowds. I looked everywhere but at Gavin, pasting a bright smile on my face. It felt wooden. I felt wooden, trapped in a pink satin prison, heels sinking into the grass. I walked stiffly up the stairs to the podium. God, I hated heels. Why had I let my mother talk me into wearing them? Why had I let my mother talk me into any of this?

I could be in Berkeley right now, headphones on, not a care in the world. Maybe I'd head into the city, grab a coffee and some dumplings from Chinatown. I'd visit Axel at work, if I was so compelled, and we'd get dinner at that shitty Italian place he liked so much. Mainly because it was cheap, and walking distance from his apartment, but still. Then I'd curl up in my dorm room under my lavender duvet and watch an episode of some reality or cooking show. Most of all, I wouldn't be here. In my impossibly small hometown with my impossibly angry and unfortunately hot ex-boyfriend.

I wouldn't be less than a foot away from him, sweating, feet sore, and able to feel with the utmost certainty that he was watching me.

I could always tell when his eyes were on me. Always. It was easy to forget what it felt like, especially since this was the longest I'd gone not seeing him...ever. Not to mention the fact that I actively tried very hard to never let him cross my mind. It was easier to forget when I wasn't here. And now that I was, breathing the same air, existing in the same space, the memories were flooding back with every second- it was too much.

Too much that we were next to each other, but his hand wasn't in mine, and I wasn't readjusting his tie because it was always crooked. I wasn't swatting him across the chest as he tried to tug at my hair. He wasn't whispering dumb shit in my ear to make me laugh. And we weren't going to go to Gordon's after this and sit in our booth by the window while we split a brownie sundae and just looked at each other.

It was too much being here and not being us anymore.

Ella Jean hugged me when we reached them, a genuine smile in her face.

"It's good to see you," she said. "You look beautiful."

"You too," I returned the compliment, and I meant it. She was glowing in her deep blue dress, her dark hair swept over her shoulders. Her cheeks were rosy and radiant, and she couldn't stop smiling whenever she looked over at Marcus. A dull ache coiled in my stomach as I saw Marcus secure his arm back around her waist after he'd greeted Gavin.

They were so happy.

I remembered that. The beginning of senior year, feeling absolutely on top of the world, like everything was ahead of you. Limitless.

"We didn't think you were coming, man," Marcus said, doing a poor job of concealing his shock at seeing us as his eyes darted between Gavin and I warily. I saw Ella Jean pinch his arm, shooting him a reprimanding look.

"Yeah, she didn't either," Gavin said bitingly, jerking his head at me. I sucked in a tense breath, pressing my lips together. He would not get a reaction out of me. That was what he wanted. What he had every right to want. But this would be over faster if I just kept my cool. The less engagement with Gavin, the better.

We stood patiently in a line while they went through all the ceremonial bullshit that took way longer than necessary. You know, all the thanking of the PTA and the board of directors and the donors, blah, blah, blah. My feet were screaming by the end of it, toes almost completely numb, and the crown was digging into my scalp. I shifted from foot to foot as subtly as possible, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. I felt Gavin's eyes flick over to me and stilled.

Finally, Mr Robertson said, "...and now for the passing of titles. Will our reigning king and queen please step forward and present their crowns and sashes to this year's royalty?"

My feet twinged in protest as soon as I took a step, and I grimaced slightly as I slipped the sash onto Ella Jean, placed the crown on her head, and Gavin and I began our exit. He glanced over at me again.

I felt his breath at my ear, "Your feet hurt, don't they?" I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"No," I lied, dreading the walk down the stairs that was about to occur. The steps seemed to go on for miles, and then the wide stretch of field after that. My feet were about ready to fall off. Why did he care whether my feet hurt or not anyway?

Gavin snorted, because of course he knew I was lying, passing me on the way down the stairs. An easy feat given that I was moving at the pace of a snail, tottering down each step with the agility of a baby deer on stilts. Damn him. He had to make everything a competition. He'd been doing it our whole lives.

I wobbled on the last step, and Gavin's hand shot out to steady me. I took it, not thinking. It was so instinctual, natural. He'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't thought about it, and neither had I. But now my skin was touching his, and his eyes were locked with mine and I was frozen.

"Thanks," I said hoarsely, as Gavin slowly released my hand. I was relieved to finally be on the grass, less relieved that my heels were sinking into the dirt.

He shut his eyes, sighed, then, "Give me your shoes."

"What?"

"Jules, we both know your feet hurt like crazy," he said exasperatedly. "You hate heels. Just- give me your shoes." He held his hand out impatiently, waiting. It was the first thing he'd said to me that hadn't been combative. I didn't argue. He was right. I slid them off my feet and handed them over. Yes, I was barefoot in the grass and it was a little gross. But it was a small price to pay for the much more comfortable trek back to the car.

You hate heels.

Because he knew me.

Because he always did. My heart ached.

Damn it.

The loudspeakers boomed to life behind us, "CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR 2023 HOMECOMING KING AND QUEEN- MARCUS KLEIN AND ELLA JEAN KIM!