Split Ends and Second Serves

The TV went dark for the third time that week. Another coaxial **cable** chewed through by the family rabbit, Gerald. Classic.

"Leo, you gotta fix this," Maya groaned from the couch. "It's the semifinals!"

Leo knelt behind the TV, twisting the frayed wire. His **hair** fell into his eyes—same floppy brown mess that his mom kept offering to cut, same one he refused to touch because at least three people in homeroom had called it "artistically tousled" (which felt like a win when you spent most of freshman year being "that quiet kid").

"There," he said, and the screen flickered to life just as the padel player on screen smashed the ball into the glass wall. Maya leaned forward, eyes glued to the match like she'd personally bet money on the outcome.

"Your turn," she said after the set ended, tossing him a racquet.

The glass **padel** court reflected everything—his awkward stance, his uncoordinated swing, Maya watching from the bench with that expression she made when trying not to laugh at him. His serve hit the back wall at a weird angle and bounced straight into his own face. Collective groans from the group of seniors watching from the courtside café.

"Maybe stick to, like, literally anything else," a junior guy called out. His friends laughed.

Afterwards, Maya found him sitting on a bench outside, checking his phone. Nothing from the group chat. Again.

"You good?"

"Peachy," he mumbled. "Just realized my so-called **friend** group hasn't invited me to anything in like three weeks."

Maya sat beside him. "They're not worth your mental energy, Leo. You know how they are—performative allies until they're not."

He looked at her then—really looked at her. The way she'd defended him in the cafeteria last month when someone made a comment about his vintage thrifted jacket. How she'd learned his pronouns without him having to ask, back when he'd tentatively mentioned he might be figuring some stuff out. The way she never made him feel like he was performing.

"Wanna go to my house?" she asked. "I may or may not have acquired proper hair-cutting scissors from my aunt's salon. And your split ends are attacking me."

His hand went to his hair automatically. "Is it that bad?"

"It's giving 'I haven't looked in a mirror since 2022,'" she deadpanned, but her eyes were warm.

Two hours later, Leo's hair was shorter, but Maya was holding a chunk of her own hair, scissors hovering.

"I may have messed up the back," she whispered.

He laughed so hard he almost fell off her bed. "Here, let me fix it."

They ended up with matching slightly uneven but intentionally textured cuts—shorter in the back, longer on top, the kind of look that said "we're figuring it out but we look good doing it."

"We match," she said, studying their reflections in the mirror.

"Best friends match," he agreed, even though something in his chest whispered that he wanted something more.

They walked into school the next day like they owned the place, same new hair, same quiet confidence. The group chat would still be dead silent. The seniors would still make faces when he served a ball into his own face.

But Maya would be there.

And that felt like enough.