19 not prepared
I should've ignored the message.
That's the first mistake.
The second is opening it anyway, because if it's from Declan, it's never urgent and always something I don't need to see at this exact moment.
My phone buzzes against the bench, screen lighting up with his name like a warning I choose to ignore.
I exhale slowly, already annoyed.
The reply comes immediately.
A photo.
I open it without thinking, and for a second, it doesn't register as anything specific-just movement, color, a figure caught mid-turn.
Then it settles.
And everything else doesn't.
She's standing in what looks like a fitting room, one shoulder angled slightly toward the mirror, like she wasn't expecting the picture to be taken. The lighting is uneven, the background cluttered with hangers and fabric, but none of that matters, because my focus lands on her and stays there.
Madi.
And she-
I go still without meaning to.
The noise around me dulls, voices blending into something distant and unimportant, the scrape of skates and echo of laughter fading behind the single, inconvenient realization that I wasn't prepared for this. She looks-
There isn't a word that fits cleanly.
Not one that doesn't feel exaggerated or inaccurate or too close to something I'm not trying to acknowledge.
So I don't say it.
I just keep looking.
The dress isn't dramatic or overdone. It doesn't look like something chosen to impress anyone else.
It looks like it belongs to her, like it fits into the version of her that doesn't try to perform or argue or push against everything around her.
There's no visible resistance in the way she's standing, no tension in her shoulders, no expression that says she's about to complain.
She looks comfortable.
That's the part that throws me. Because she's rarely comfortable. At least not in a way that's easy to read. And now-
she is.
And somehow that makes everything else feel different.
"Say something," Declan says.
I don't look up.
I don't answer.
I keep my focus on the screen for a second longer than necessary, like if I move too quickly it'll make the reaction more obvious than it already is.
"She looks fine," I say eventually, locking my phone.
There's a pause. Then-
"Fine," Declan repeats, like the word personally offended him.
I glance up just enough to see him leaning against the lockers, watching me with an expression that already knows too much.
"It's accurate," I add.
"It's not even close," he says.
I shrug once, casual, controlled. "It's a dress."
"It's not just a dress."
"It is just a dress."
"It's her in a dress," he corrects, like that's the difference that matters.
"That doesn't change anything."
"It changes enough," he says.
I don't respond to that. Because I don't like how easily he says it. Because I don't like how easily it might be true.
I pick my phone up again before I can stop myself, unlocking it with a movement that feels automatic.
The photo is still there.
Exactly the same.
Still-
I study it more carefully this time, like I'm looking for something specific, something that explains why it caught me off guard in the first place.
It's not the dress, not really.
It's the way she's standing in it, like she's not trying to make it look like anything. There's no adjustment, no effort to control how it's perceived. It's just... her.
Unfiltered.
And somehow that makes it worse.
"You stopped blinking," Declan says.
I look up immediately. "That's not a thing."
"That's definitely a thing."
"I'm blinking."
"Not enough."
I lock my phone again, setting it down this time like distance might fix the problem.
"It doesn't mean anything," I say.
Declan tilts his head slightly. "You didn't say it out loud."
"I don't need to."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm not."
"You are," he says. "You just don't like what it is."
I exhale slowly, leaning back against the lockers, crossing my arms like that reinforces something.
"There's nothing to think about," I say.
"She looks good."
"She looks fine."
"She looks-" he pauses, watching me closely, "-like you weren't ready for that."
I hold his gaze for a second, then look away. Because that part-
is accurate.
And I don't like it.
"It's not relevant," I say.
"It's about to be," he replies.
"How?"
"You're going to show up with her in three weeks."
I don't respond immediately. Because I've already thought about that. Not like this, not in detail.
But enough to know it's not something I can ignore.
"Publicly, this is getting bigger," he continues. "Privately, you look like you're trying to pretend it's not."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"You are," he says easily. "You just haven't figured out what yet."
I shake my head slightly, pushing off the lockers.
"It's still the same situation," I say. "Nothing changed."
Declan watches me for a second, then nods once, like he's agreeing in a way that isn't agreement at all. "Right."
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder before reaching for my phone again.
I don't open the photo this time.
I don't need to.
It's already there.
Clear enough.
Annoying enough.
Persistent enough that ignoring it feels like effort.
She looks-
I stop the thought before it finishes. Because finishing it would mean acknowledging it.
And acknowledging it would mean-
something shifted.
Not publicly.
That part was already obvious.
But privately-
just enough.
Not enough to matter, not enough to change anything. Just enough that I notice.
And that-
is the problem.