McKenzie Rivera had mastered the art of pretending.
She pretended every morning when she brushed her hair into a neat bun—even though she used to wear it loose because Tiann loved running her fingers through it. She pretended when she laughed with her friends in the campus quad, even though her laugh wasn't as loud as it used to be. And she definitely pretended when she told everyone she was "so over it."
She wasn't.
Not even close.
Tianna had been a whirlwind—warm, confident, a girl who lit up every room she walked into. McKenzie fell for her the same way people fall asleep: slowly, then all at once. And the breakup had been the same, only in reverse—first confusion, then cracks, then everything collapsing at once.
Now, months later, McKenzie still felt like she was walking around with half of her heart taped together.
And she was tired. So, so tired.
On a crisp October evening, she slipped into the campus café, needing somewhere to sit that wasn't her own room. The place smelled like cinnamon and espresso, warm enough to feel like a hug without asking anything in return. She ordered the same thing she always did—hot chocolate with whipped cream, because Tianna used to tease her for drinking "kids' beverages," and now McKenzie ordered them out of spite. Or nostalgia. Or both.
Her eyes were still puffy from crying in the library washroom. She hoped no one noticed.
She picked a seat by the window, pulled her hood tighter, and exhaled shakily.
She didn't notice Lily was watching.
....
Lily Laurent always claimed she wasn't good at reading people, but that was a lie told by someone who didn't want to explain how deeply she felt things.
She saw patterns in the way people moved, the way they shifted their shoulders when nervous or tightened their jaw when lying. It made her good at drawing characters and even better at noticing the small, easily overlooked details that made a person themselves.
And McKenzie Rivera?
She was full of tiny, heartbreaking details.
The first time Lily noticed her was months ago, at a club fair. McKenzie had been helping set up a booth, smiling with a kind of tired brightness. Lily had only spoken to her twice after that—once to ask about an event, once to compliment her jacket—but every time she saw her in a hallway or across a classroom, something in her chest tugged.
But Lily wasn't reckless.
She had learned the hard way that sometimes feelings ruined things.
She told herself it was a harmless crush. The kind you keep tucked in your sleeve like a pressed flower—pretty, private, and safe.
Yet tonight, seeing McKenzie curled tightly into herself, face blotchy, eyes staring emptily at her drink—
Something inside Lily cracked.
She hesitated only long enough to close her sketchbook and slip out her earbuds. Her heart hammered. Her palms went warm, then cold.
She walked to McKenzie's table.
"Hey," she said softly. "Do you… want company?"
McKenzie looked up, startled. Her hazel eyes were swimming with the tail-end of tears, the kind you try to wipe away before anyone sees.
"Lily?" McKenzie blinked. "Oh—um. You don't have to. I'm fine."
Lily sat down anyway, slow enough to leave room for her to refuse.
"You don't look fine."
McKenzie opened her mouth, closed it again, and then laughed miserably. "Wow. I must look terrible."
"You look like someone who needs a friend." Lily's voice was warm. Careful. "And I can be that. Just for tonight, if that's all you want."
Something in McKenzie's face softened.
"Okay," she whispered. "Yeah. Actually… that would be nice."
They talked for a while—first about neutral things: professors, terrible midterms, annoying group projects. Lily didn't push. She just listened.
Eventually, McKenzie's fingers tightened around her cup.
"It's my ex," she said, voice wavering. "I thought I was doing better. I really did."
Lily nodded gently, saying nothing.
"We broke up months ago. Everyone keeps telling me I should be over her by now. But I'm not." McKenzie's throat bobbed. "I'm scared I'll never be."
Lily's hand twitched, wanting to reach out, but she kept it still on her knee.
"Love doesn't run on a deadline," she said. "People heal at different speeds."
McKenzie's lip trembled. "What if I never catch up?"
"You will." Lily offered a small, steady smile. "And until then… you don't have to do it alone."
McKenzie stared at her for a beat longer than necessary. The café buzzed softly around them, but to Lily it felt like the whole room had gone quiet.
She didn't know it yet—not fully—but something between them shifted that night. A door cracked open that had been locked on both ends.
And for the first time in months, McKenzie felt a tiny spark of warmth that didn't come from a memory of Tianna. It came from the quiet girl with the gentle voice and the eyes that saw too much.
As they walked out together, their breaths fogging in the cold air, McKenzie asked:
"Why did you come over tonight? You barely know me."
Lily swallowed.
Because I like you. Because I've liked you longer than I should.
But she didn't say that—not when McKenzie was still stitched together by fragile threads.
Instead she murmured, "Because I could tell you needed someone."
McKenzie looked at her again, that same searching, curious look.
It lingered.
And Lily felt her world tilt.
That night, McKenzie went to bed thinking of something unfamiliar:
Hope.
And Lily went to bed knowing one thing clearly:
Her harmless crush was no longer harmless.
It was growing roots.