Orange Soda Betrayal

I'd been cyber-stalking Tyler's Instagram for three weeks straight. That's basically what being a friend meant in 2026 — knowing someone's lunch order before they did. Tyler had posted seven photos of his baseball jersey, number 23, since making varsity. The caption was always something lame like "hard work pays off." Bruh, you're a sophomore, not in the MLB.

The problem wasn't that Tyler was popular now. The problem was that I was becoming a spy in my own best friendship. I'd catch myself watching him from across the cafeteria, analyzing his new laugh — that forced, too-loud chuckle he used with the varsity guys. Our inside jokes had dried up like crusty ketchup.

So when Tyler invited me to his baseball game Friday, I almost said no. But my mom was all, "This is nice! He still makes time for his oldest friend!" Yeah, thanks for the pep talk, Mom.

The bleachers smelled like sunscreen and stale popcorn. I sat alone, nursing a warm orange soda from the concession stand, watching Tyler warm up. He looked different out there — confident, like he actually belonged somewhere. Then he caught a fly ball and pointed to the stands, right where I was sitting.

My orange soda splashed everywhere.

After the game — they won, obviously — Tyler found me in the parking lot. "You coming to the party at Jake's?"

"Since when do you go to Jake's parties?" I said, then immediately wanted to die. Way to sound bitter, genius.

Tyler shrugged, looking at his cleats. "Since I made starting lineup." He paused. "You should come. Everyone wants to meet the famous baseball friend."

The way he said it — like it was a title, not a real thing — made something click. Tyler hadn't abandoned me. He'd just moved up a level, and I was still standing at the bottom of the stairs wondering why it was so quiet.

"Nah," I said, crushing my empty orange soda can. "I'm good. But hey — bring me back some of those little pizza rolls?"

Tyler's face lit up. "For real? That's what you want?"

"Those things are fire, Tyler. Don't play."

He laughed — his real laugh this time. "You're so weird, bro. I got you."

Maybe we weren't the same friends we used to be. But as I watched him jog toward Jake's BMW, I realized something: Tyler wasn't the one who'd changed. I was the one who'd stopped showing up. Being a spy was easy. Being a friend took actual work.

My phone buzzed. Tyler had posted a pic of us from freshman year, captioned: "OG since day 1." I liked it. Then I ordered another orange soda and actually watched the rest of the game.