MELODY
...

My bedroom door clicks shut, and for a second, it feels too quiet. I sit there, thinking about the messy braid I made in Stephanie’s hair.

She’s probably already taken it out. She doesn’t seem like the type to leave something like that in. Too self-conscious. Too... her.

I glance out the window, watching her bike pull out of the driveway. She hesitates at the end of the street, like she’s deciding whether to turn left or right. Or maybe she’s just second-guessing leaving.

It’s stupid, but a tiny part of me wants her to come back.

I shake my head and flop onto my bed, running my fingers through my hair. This isn’t supposed to be happening.

She’s my physiotherapist, my pain in the ass, my “here because I don’t have a choice.” She’s not supposed to make me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

She’s not supposed to sit there with that ridiculous focus, trying to draw me like we’re in some art class gone wrong.

And she’s definitely not supposed to look at me like that, like she means every word when she says I’m more than basketball.

But she's not making things simple.

I reach for my phone, intending to go through my messages or something mindless, but I just stare at my lock screen.

I pull up my camera and flip it to selfie mode, catching my reflection. My cheeks are still a little pink, probably from laughing too hard earlier. I look... lighter. Less like the moody, washed-up basketball player I’ve felt like for the past few weeks.

“That’s on you, Steph,” I mutter to no one. “Making me laugh like that. What’s your problem?”

The worst part is, I don’t even mind.

I throw my phone under the pillow beside me and close my eyes. The quiet starts to creep in again, filling all the corners of my brain that Stephanie usually occupies.

Her stupid laugh. Her terrible drawing skills. The way she looked when she sat on the floor and let me braid her hair, like she didn’t hate it as much as she pretended to.

God, I’m in trouble.

Before I can spiral too much,  Jeremiah pokes into my room.

"Dinner is ready."

"Coming," I mumbles flatly.

By the time I shuffle into the kitchen, Jeremiah is already at the stove, flipping something in a pan with way too much confidence for someone who once set a microwave on fire.

“Don’t burn it this time,” I say, leaning against the counter.

I haven't seen him cook in a while, mostly Maria covers lunch and he brings take out for dinner.

“Don’t doubt me,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I’ve got this.”

I roll my eyes but sit down at the table anyway, my stomach growling at the smell of whatever he’s making.

“So,” he starts, his tone immediately suspicious.

“So what?” I narrow my eyes.

“How’s Stephanie?” he asks, dragging out her name like it’s a joke only he gets.

“She’s fine,” I say quickly.

Jeremiah raises an eyebrow as he slides a plate in front of me.

“Just fine, huh? You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

“She’s fixing me, what did you expect?” I say, stabbing at the steak and rice on my plate.

“She’s more than that, though, isn’t she?” he teases, sitting across from me. “Because your sessions are only two hours a day but she stays longer than that. Also, I've seen the way you smile when you’re around her.”

I groan. “Jeremiah, drop it.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, undeterred. “You’re practically glowing these days. It’s cute. Sickening, but cute.”

“I’m not glowing,” I snap, but my cheeks feel warm, and I hate it.

“Right,” he says, smirking. “You’re totally not developing a massive crush on your cute, annoying physiotherapist. Nope. Not at all.”

“Jeremiah.” My voice is a warning, but he just laughs.

“Fine, fine,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll stop. For now.”

We eat in relative silence after that, but I can feel him watching me, probably trying to figure out how far he can push before I snap.

When we finish, I gather the plates and head to the sink, hoping the task will give me something to focus on. But Jeremiah isn’t done.

“You know,” he says casually, leaning against the counter beside me to dry the plates, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you fell in love with her.”

I drop the plate I’m holding into the sink with a loud clatter. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, grinning. “I’m just saying, she’s good for you. You’re happier when she’s around. And, let’s be honest, she’s hot.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I hate you. If you think she's hot, why don't you date her?”

“No, you don’t,” he says, bumping my shoulder with his. “I already have a girlfriend. But seriously, Mel. It’s okay to like her. You deserve to be happy, you know.”

His words hit a little too close to home, and I feel the tightness in my chest return.

“I’m not talking about this with you,” I say, grabbing a towel to dry my hands. "Plus, who says I'm gay?"

He laughs. "Balls, you might not be gay but you're for her."

I hit him with the towel and he runs out of the kitchen, his deep voice echoing laughter in the hallway.

When I crawl into bed, Jeremiah’s words keep ringing in my head, and I hate how much they stick.

It’s okay to like her. You deserve to be happy.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Stephanie does make me happier. But that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it. She’s just... Stephanie. My physio barbie. My friend at most.

But friends don’t make your heart race every time they smile. Friends don’t make you want to hold on to moments just a little longer, to memorize the way they laugh or the way their hair falls into their eyes when they’re trying not to look at you.

Friends don’t make you feel like this.

But the next time I see her, I’ll act normal. I’ll push all this down and pretend nothing’s changed.

It’s better that way.