Intel and Ink

My phone buzzed with the group chat notification: *need intel. u got eyes on target?* I adjusted my navy beanie, pulling it lower over my forehead. The hat was basically part of my identity at this point – my social camouflage, my "I'm not really here" signal. Max called me the group's designated *spy* because I noticed everything. Who sat by who at lunch. Which pairs made sustained eye contact during chem. The subtle shift in posture when someone's crush walked by.

I typed back: *target acquired. wearing the yellow hoodie. scrolling tiktok but def not paying attention.*

*details??*

*keeps glancing at the door. u're good.*

This was my thing. Gathering intel. Being the person who knew everything while staying safely on the sidelines. It felt powerful – like I held all the cards without ever having to play a hand.

Then Jordan walked in.

I'd been *running* from this particular truth for three weeks – ever since that study session when our elbows kept touching and I forgot how to form complete sentences. My usual tactic: dip. Ghost. Pretend I had somewhere urgent to be. My legs were literally twitching with the urge to bolt.

But Jordan spotted my beanie from across the library and started walking over.

My phone buzzed again. *incoming 12 o'clock. abort mission??*

My fingers hovered over the screen. I could grab my bag and speed-walk to the cafeteria. I could keep playing spy, gathering intel on everyone else's potential romances while staying safely undercover in my role as the observer who never participates.

Jordan reached my table and smiled. "Hey. You busy?"

I looked at my phone, at my escape route, at the way Jordan's eyes actually lit up when they saw me. I typed one last message to the group chat: *aborting mission. going rogue.*

Then I set down my phone, adjusted my hat, and finally stopped running.