Citrus Surveillance

The security camera feed in the vitamin shop where I worked part-time had become my guilty pleasure. Not because I was some aspiring private investigator, but because the camera had a perfect angle on the table where THE Layla Robinson sat every Thursday after school.

I'd clock out, hide in the back room, and watch. Pathetic? Maybe. But when you're a sixteen-year-old nobody crushing on the girl who somehow managed to be varsity soccer captain AND NHS president AND still have time for that perfectly messy bun, you take what you can get.

Then came the orange incident.

I was restocking the B-12 section when my coworker Mateo nudged me, practically vibrating with gossip energy. "Bro, you seeing this?"

Layla was at her usual table, but something was different. She'd pulled out this gnarly-looking orange vitamin drink—the kind that comes in those pretentious glass bottles with ingredients you can't pronounce—and was CHUGGING it. Not sipping like a normal human. CHUGGING.

"What is that?" I whispered, transfixed.

"That's that new focus supplement everyone's talking about," Mateo said. "Supposed to be, like, next-level brain stuff. But it tastes like actual despair, hence the chugging."

Layla slammed the empty bottle down, made a face like she'd just licked a sidewalk, then immediately opened a backup.

My crush had just been upgraded from distant admiration to full-blown obsession. Perfect Layla Robinson wasn't actually perfect—she was just better at hiding her chaotic grind culture than the rest of us.

The next Thursday, I made my move.

"Hey," I said, sliding into the chair across from her. Layla's eyes went wide, mid-chug. She practically spit orange liquid everywhere.

"I've been watching you," I said, then immediately regretted how that sounded. "On the cameras. I work here. And I noticed you're single-handedly keeping that orange focus vitamin in business."

She wiped her mouth, suddenly flustered. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to the creepy guy spying from the back room," I said, gesturing to myself. "I'm Alex, by the way. Professional supplement stalker."

Layla laughed, and the sound did something annoyingly hopeful to my chest. "I'm failing AP Chem," she admitted. "These drinks are supposed to help. They don't."

"No," I agreed. "But I hear the orange ones are best for desperation."

"You're weird, Alex."

"I'll take it."

She didn't stop coming on Thursdays, but after that, she always sat by the counter instead of the cameras. I never did ask if she actually liked the orange vitamins, or if she just needed an excuse to talk to the weirdo who called her out on them. Either way, I wasn't complaining.