Cassie—and I have to say it carefully even now, because even her name feels like something fragile, like it was handwritten on a sunbeam and if I say it too loudly it might evaporate—Cassie, short for Cassandra but absolutely no one calls her that because she wouldn’t let them, because somehow even syllables seemed to negotiate with her before they settled, and the moment I think her name I feel this automatic smile start to form and then immediately clamp down on it, because God forbid I look sincere in public, but that’s how it begins, that softening, that warmth, that very specific late-afternoon light kind of feeling, like the air itself has decided to be generous for once, and I remember how we met, in art class, not the pretentious kind where everyone quotes Derrida and pretends to be allergic to joy and spends three weeks explaining why they didn’t actually mean the thing they clearly meant, no, this was the messy kind, the honest kind, charcoal ground into the grooves of your fingers, acrylic somehow ending up in your eyebrows no matter how careful you were, the smell of turpentine and panic, someone quietly crying in the corner because their self-portrait turned out to look exactly like their dad and they were not emotionally prepared for that revelation at ten thirty on a Tuesday, and we were all there pretending this was fine, pretending this was growth, and then she walked in—Cassie—and I don’t mean walked like entered a room, I mean arrived, but not in a dramatic way, not like a thunderclap or a spotlight, more like gravity subtly changing direction, hair in a bun that wasn’t trying, that hadn’t practiced in the mirror, paint already on her sleeve like she’d come from somewhere more interesting, confidence radiating off her like cheap perfume except it wasn’t cheap and it wasn’t loud and it didn’t choke the room, it just existed, and she smiled, and I remember thinking, oh, that’s not fair, because when Cassie smiles at you it isn’t polite and it isn’t performative and it isn’t one of those smiles people use as social punctuation, it’s like being chosen, like for one brief, unreasonable second the sun has decided to look directly at you and say yes, you, and I laugh now when I think about how embarrassing that sounds, how earnest, because it annoyed me immediately, it really did, because she was good, not art-school good where everyone trades compliments like survival rations and cries in the bathroom, but actually good, effortlessly, infuriatingly good, magic even, the kind of person who touches a canvas and something happens, something shifts, something moves, like the paint itself is paying attention, like it wants to obey her, and we started talking the way these things always start, about brushes, about which ones shed and which ones lie, then about concept, then about why we were really there, and then somehow about life, and suddenly we were staying after class, leaning against tables splattered with old colors, laughing too loudly, sharing stories that felt one step too intimate for how recently we’d met, and before I knew it we were thick as thieves, which is the part I don’t say lightly, because that terrified me, absolutely terrified me, because people like Cassie don’t usually pick people like me, people like Cassie float, they drift, they glide, they belong wherever they land, and people like me paddle, frantically, underwater, arms burning, lungs screaming, smiling above the surface and hoping—really hoping—no one notices we’re drowning.

Okay, listen, we need to talk about Cassie’s boobs, and before you panic or call a committee or light a torch, let me be very clear that this is not a creepy conversation, this is a scientific one, a structural one, a matter of form and line and volume and gravity, because I am, whether I asked to be or not, a student of how things occupy space, and Cassie’s breasts—honestly—are monumental, architectural, the Gaudí of mammary design, and as I pace back and forth I realize I’ve been trying to file this fascination under “funny” for weeks now and it keeps slipping into something closer to awe, because they don’t just exist, they intend, they curve like they have purpose, like someone sat down and said yes, this angle, this softness, this exact defiance of physics, they move like poetry you don’t have to understand to feel, and they sit on her chest like they belong there in the deepest, most undeniable way, like they were handcrafted by a benevolent god with excellent taste and a fondness for sweaters, and the thing that really gets me, the thing that knocks the air out of my lungs just a little, is that she has no idea, or if she does know she doesn’t care, which is frankly worse, because she’s just over there mixing violet and burnt sienna like it’s any other day, shirt slightly loose, the outline of her generous and structurally majestic bosom casually resting against the edge of the table, completely unbothered, while I’m over here actively negotiating with my respiratory system, clutching my own chest like that might help, because meanwhile mine are apparently yelling, “Hi, we’re here too, built for speed, not drama,” and don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with them, truly, we’ve made peace, we have an arrangement, I look down at them sometimes with genuine affection and say you guys do your best and I’ll stop stuffing you into bras like you’re going to court, but Cassie’s—Cassie’s make you want to write sonnets, or switch teams, or confess something you didn’t know you were hiding in the back of your brain behind old receipts and unreturned emails, and when I stop pacing and let the thought settle it hits me that they’re not just boobs, they’re a presence, a kind of soft defiance, and the fact that she doesn’t lead with them, doesn’t deploy them, doesn’t weaponize them, makes her even more powerful, because I would lead with them, I absolutely would, I would walk into rooms with them, I would develop a handshake using them, I would absolutely be insufferable, but Cassie just exists, radiant and oblivious, and I’m the one trying not to accidentally stare too long during still life class like I’ve never seen a human body before, and honestly, it’s exhausting.

So… here’s where it gets weird, or maybe not weird exactly, just—unplanned, which somehow feels worse, because I am very good at planning my emotional life into neat, labeled boxes that say things like admiration or interest or this is fine, and this doesn’t fit any of them, because one minute I’m sitting there doing what I always do, which is observing, appreciating, cataloguing, admiring the technique first, the brushwork, the way the colors talk to each other without raising their voices, the sheer architectural genius of her cleavage—purely academic, obviously, like I’m an art historian with a pulse—and the next minute she’s laughing at something I said, something objectively dumb, something that should not be rewarded with joy, something like me admitting that I once tried to make spaghetti in a kettle and accidentally dyed the noodles pink, and she doesn’t do that polite laugh, not the little exhale people use to be kind, not the “oh, you’re adorable” laugh that stays safely on the surface, she loses it, throws her head back, actually gasps for air, bangs the table like I’ve just rewritten the rules of comedy, and I watch it happen in slow motion and I feel something shift, physically, like a chair leg finally settling on the floor after wobbling for too long, and suddenly I want to make her laugh again, not for the ego boost, not for the attention, not for the easy hit of being liked, but because it lights her up, because when she lights up the whole room feels warmer, like someone adjusted the thermostat without asking, and that’s the moment I realize I’m sitting closer to her than I was before, close enough that personal space has quietly packed up and left, close enough to smell paint and citrus shampoo, close enough to notice this small freckle near her collarbone that I definitely did not need to notice and absolutely cannot un-notice, and my brain, which is usually very quick with excuses, goes completely silent except for one unhelpful, crystal-clear thought—oh—and then immediately, oh no, because I’ve been here before, sort of, not exactly, a crush on a girl in year ten who let me copy her French homework and wore lip gloss that smelled like vanilla, and I told myself that was admiration, hero worship, academic desperation, anything except what it might have been, because labels make things manageable, but this—this with Cassie—feels different, less safe, more real, more intrusive, like it’s pushing its way into rooms I didn’t invite it into, and I laugh once, small and nervous, because I hate that word, real, like everything before it wasn’t, like the feelings I could name and explain and downplay somehow mattered less, and I sit there knowing I haven’t admitted any of this out loud yet, not to her, not even properly to myself, but the room feels smaller anyway, closer, like it’s listening, like it already knows.

So now I don’t know, and that’s the part that keeps catching in my throat, because I’m used to knowing—or at least pretending I do—and here I am standing with one foot slightly forward like I might take a step if someone drew me a map, except no one did, so I just stay there, balanced between motion and stillness, telling myself I don’t know what this is, I don’t know what it could be, I don’t know if it’s anything at all or just another one of my psychological detours dressed up in hormones and unresolved grief like a very convincing Halloween costume that wins prizes and then quietly ruins your week, and I fold my arms and look down because eye contact with my own feelings feels aggressive, but even with all that uncertainty stacked up like badly packed boxes I still know a few things, annoyingly clear things, like how I like being around her, how something in my chest loosens when she talks, how the world gets a little less loud, a little less sharp around the edges, how I notice myself scanning rooms without meaning to and then realizing I’m looking for her first, always her, like my brain has quietly reassigned priorities without consulting me, and how I almost asked her to lunch the other day and felt the words line up perfectly right behind my teeth before panic slammed into them and I heard myself saying I had a dentist appointment, which is ridiculous because I do not have a dentist, I haven’t had a dentist since the one who told me I grind my teeth in my sleep, which honestly felt less like medical advice and more like a personal attack, and I can smile about that now but only briefly, because the real thing—the Cassie thing—sits underneath it all, steady and unnerving, because with her I don’t want to perform, I don’t want to dazzle or sharpen myself into a weapon or be the funniest or the smartest or the most visibly damaged person in the room, I don’t want applause or distance or control, I just want to be, with her, near her, maybe even—this is the word that makes my stomach flip—for her, and that’s terrifying, because if it’s real then it has weight, and if it has weight it can fall, and if it falls I can lose it, and if I can lose it then I can absolutely fuck it up the way I fuck everything else up, and I can already hear myself doing it, tripping over my own mouth, saying something like, “Hey, Cassie, so, um, I think you’re brilliant and I also think I might want to—I don’t know—kiss you? Or at least hold your hand while looking at your incredible rack in a deeply respectful way,” which makes me wince just imagining it, no, absolutely not, delete that entire version of me from the archive, so I take a breath, another one, and try again, softer this time, simpler, because maybe it doesn’t have to be a confession or a punchline or a disaster, maybe I just ask if she wants to grab coffee, nothing heavy, nothing loaded, just caffeine and conversation, two people sitting across from each other letting the air do some of the work, letting it be light, letting it be kind, letting it be—this is the scariest part—possible, and I stand there thinking this, Tallulah, still not moving, but not backing away either, which for me is already something.