Sweaty Palms & Deep Water

The air conditioning at Maya's house was broken, which meant my palms were already sweating before I even walked through the front door. Not exactly the vibe you want when you're about to confess feelings to your best friend since seventh grade.

I wiped my hands on my jeans. Again.

"You good?" Maya asked, grilling cheese sandwiches with the casual confidence of someone who didn't currently have an entire emotional revolution happening in their head. "You look like you're about to throw up."

"Just hungry," I lied. Smooth. The smoothness of a cheese grater.

Her pool glittered through the sliding glass doors, that suburban promise of summer freedom. We'd spent half our lives in that pool, shoulders shrugging off the awkwardness of middle school, the weight of high school expectations dissolving in chlorinated water. Swimming had always been our thing—no phones, no filters, just us and water and conversations that went deeper than anything we'd say on dry land.

But everything felt different now. The word friend sat in my chest like a stone. Four letters that had suddenly started feeling like a cage.

"So," Maya said, flipping a sandwich with practiced ease. "Jordan's having a party Saturday. You wanna go together?"

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to stomach. "Together-together?"

She laughed, but her eyes didn't meet mine. "I mean, obviously we'd arrive together. We're basically a package deal at this point." She paused. "Unless you're trying to make a move on someone."

The kitchen suddenly felt very small. The air very thick. My palms were ridiculous at this point—like, someone could slip and fall on my hands levels of bad.

"Actually," I started, and my voice came out weird. "I was hoping—"

Her phone buzzed. The kitchen lit up with a notification that made her whole face change.

"Oh my GOD, Kai finally texted me back." She abandoned the grill. "Sorry, this is huge. He's been ghosting me for literally three days."

I watched her thumbs fly across the screen, that universal language of teenage urgency, and something in me settled. Not broke—settled. Like silt at the bottom of a pool.

"You good with that?" she asked eventually, looking up. "You were saying something?"

I looked at my hands, then at the pool, then at her—my friend, maybe something more once, definitely still the person who knew me better than anyone.

"Just that I'm starving," I said. "And you're burning that sandwich."

"BRB," she said, rescuing our lunch with a dramatic gasp.

Later, we'd end up in the pool anyway. Some things don't change. Some things aren't supposed to.