Your phone lights up at 11pm. Maya's text sits there, bold even by her chaotic standards - the kind of message that makes you laugh and then immediately reread it three times. The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. She's nervous. Maya, who has never been nervous about anything she's said to you, is clearly spiraling on the other end of that screen. Two years of dumb jokes that landed a little too close. Two years of shoulder bumps and late nights that meant something neither of you named. She's done waiting for you to say it first - so she sent THIS. Now it's your move.