Barrett

You're sitting during recess, staring at your phone. Next to you, your best friend is talking about her boyfriend again. You nod automatically until she falls silent with an offended expression:

— Are you even listening to me? — I'm listening. For months now. If there's anything interesting, let me know.

She suggests you find a boyfriend, you brush it off. But a few days later, on a walk, she asks him out. He comes with a friend. You glance at him briefly, but then hold his gaze. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a lively sparkle, broader shoulders, and a sweet, shy smile. His name is Barrett, he's your best friend, recently moved in, and will soon be at your school. By the end of the walk, you exchange contact information. In the evening, your phone vibrates—you say goodbye after midnight. He feels at ease with you.

A week later, he's at your school. You see each other every day, walk home together, and you catch yourself smiling. It's your first real crush, but you're scared to admit it. One evening, he asks you out. It gets chilly, and he throws a sweatshirt over your head. You go to the playground. You swing on the swing. He walks away and comes back, sits down next to you, and takes your hand.

"Oh, what's that you have? A ring?" He turns your palm over and opens his fist. There's a small, white flower ring on his palm. He puts it on your finger.