There's something oddly grounding about routine.
Tuesday morning starts with my earphones in, a lopsided breakfast bar halfway to my mouth, and Camila giving me side-eye because I spilled orange juice down the front of my shirt again.
"Do you own clothes without stains?" she asks, expertly flicking her eyeliner on as we wait for the school bus.
"Character development," I mutter. "Some people collect trophies. I collect stains and emotional baggage."
"Poetic."
At school, the drama club is putting up new flyers for auditions. I've always loved watching them rehearse, even though I've never actually joined. There's a vulnerability to it, standing on a stage pretending to be someone else—something about that feels close to home.
"You ever think of auditioning?" Camila asks, eyeing me as we pass the bulletin board.
"Nah," I say, "I already do enough pretending."
She pauses, then gives me a look. The kind that means we're going to talk about that later whether you like it or not.
During Chemistry, I share a bench with a girl named Zara. She's got this big curly hair that's always getting in her way, and she talks to herself while solving equations.
"You're doing that thing again," she says, nudging me mid-lab.
"What thing?"
"That thing where your face is here, but your brain's somewhere else. Lemme guess… tall, handsome, emotionally repressed?"
I nearly choked on my soda, which I wasn't meant to be taking during class.
She just laughs. "Don't worry, you've got the 'dazed and soft-boy in love' aesthetic on lock."
Honestly, it's nice. Being known like that, even in passing. Not as Alex's maybe-kinda boyfriend. Just… Nick, the soft boy with questionable fashion sense and too many pens in his bag.
At lunch, a group of us pile into the courtyard to play cards—nothing serious, just some chaotic game of bluffing and sabotage that Camila insists she's undefeated at. I win twice and lose ten times. Camila accuses me of cheating both times I win.
"Maybe I'm just smarter than you," I say, sipping my juice dramatically.
"You eat cereal with a fork when you can't find a spoon."
"That was one time."
"Still."
We're surrounded by classmates, all laughing too loud and passing around snacks like the apocalypse is scheduled for fourth period. It hits me then—how weirdly happy I feel. Like I'm allowed to be here. Like I'm not just waiting for the next piece of drama to detonate.
This… this is life too.
After school, Camila and I head to a bookstore she loves. It's this tiny, overstuffed place that smells like old pages and possibility. She flips through romance novels while I skim graphic novels, our conversations skipping from astrology (Camila's a Capricorn, obviously) to whether the school cafeteria secretly serves rebranded prison food.
"You ever think," I ask as we settle near the windows, "about what it'll be like once we graduate? When none of this is... around anymore?"
Camila shrugs. "Yeah. But then I think, whatever happens—some of it sticks. You, for example. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
I smile. "Good."
She tilts her head. "You thinking about the future with Alex?"
"Kind of. Like, not in a freaky wedding-bells way. Just… I don't know. If we'll still fit when life changes."
"You might not. And that's okay too. Just make sure you don't twist yourself to fit someone else's story. Especially not someone you love."
I stare out the window for a second. She always knows exactly when to say stuff like that.
When I get home that night, Alex is asleep on the couch, one arm over his face, the TV playing some old sitcom on low volume. I watch him for a second—his guard down, his face peaceful in a way it rarely is.
I don't wake him.
Instead, I grab a blanket and toss it over him, brushing his hair back lightly before heading to my room.
Because right now, I'm not just in love.
I'm living my life too.