Middle school had a way of changing everything — not all at once, but in tiny, unspoken ways. Voices dropped. Friendships strained and stretched. And suddenly, the world wasn't just about playground games anymore.
Age 13: The Beginning of the Fracture
Skie was the first to notice it — the way her heart did something stupid every time Brian, Conner's older brother, walked into a room. He was seventeen then, tall and lean with a smirk that looked like it had been practiced in the mirror.
He played guitar in a garage band, wore rings he probably didn't know the meaning of, and had a dimple that made Skie forget her own name.
She kept the crush to herself.
Mostly.
Because every time she lingered at Conner's house too long, watching Brian pluck strings in the living room, she caught Conner's eyes on her. Frowning. Confused. Quiet.
And then he'd go cold.
Conner didn't understand it at first. Skie had always been his — not in the possessive way, but in the unspoken, cosmic way you just know. The kind of person who finished your sentences, punched your arm when you lied, and knew the exact ratio of butter to jam on toast.
But lately, she was laughing at Brian's dumb jokes. Hanging around the garage when the band rehearsed. Wearing lip gloss.
And Conner? He was mad.
Not just annoyed-mad — aching-mad. The kind of mad you feel when you realize you're not sure where your place is anymore.
And then there was Dylan.
Sweet, sensitive Dylan who tried to pretend everything was fine. Who buried his nose in books and forced smiles that cracked at the corners. At thirteen, Dylan realized something that terrified him more than anything else.
He liked boys.
Not in a casual way. Not in a phase kind of way. But in the kind of way that made him stare too long in the locker room and hate himself for it. That made his stomach twist when he saw Skie sighing about Brian, or when Conner tugged his shirt off after basketball like it was nothing.
It wasn't nothing to Dylan.
It was everything.
He tried to pray it away. He tried to fight it. He even dated a girl in eighth grade for three weeks before breaking up with her over text and crying about it in his closet. His parents — strict, traditional, Korean — believed in discipline, image, and family honor. They didn't believe in that.
So Dylan kept it locked inside.
By the time junior high ended, the trio still walked home together, still shared jokes and stories — but cracks had formed beneath the surface.
Cracks none of them were ready to name.
Age 15: First Semester of in High School Year
The first day of high school arrived like thunder — loud, fast, and heavy with the scent of something coming.
Skie stood in front of her mirror, her curls bouncing over her shoulders, her lip gloss shining just a little more than usual. She looked older. Sharper. But beneath all of it, she was still that girl who once buried a note in a playground capsule with two boys she loved in very different ways.
She hadn't told Conner the crush on Brian had fizzled out over a year ago. Not because it mattered anymore — but because a part of her knew, deep down, that the silence had already changed them.
Conner met her at the bus stop that morning, his hair pushed back messily, headphones slung around his neck. He looked at her for a second too long, like he wanted to say something, but didn't.
"You look..." he started, then shrugged. "You know. You."
She rolled her eyes. "What a compliment. I'm swooning."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Dylan arrived last, as always. Dressed in a layered hoodie and jeans, clutching a sketchbook like it was armor. He avoided eye contact. The night before, he'd nearly come out to them — texted, deleted, retyped. Then stared at the ceiling for hours, heart racing.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
The three of them walked to school side by side, but they weren't in sync anymore. It was subtle — the pause between laughs, the hesitations in conversation, the way their shadows didn't quite overlap the way they used to.
Later That Week: The Bonfire
Someone from school threw a back-to-school bonfire by the lake — one of those secret events that half the school showed up to without it ever being "official." Skie, Conner, and Dylan went together, out of habit more than desire.
Flames flickered in the darkness. Music thumped from someone's car speakers. People danced, drank, made out under the stars.
Skie was sitting on a log when Brian arrived — back from college, older now, broader, and with a girlfriend in town. Skie watched him from a distance and felt... nothing.
Conner sat beside her, close enough that their arms touched. She glanced at him and smiled.
"I don't like how much you don't talk to me anymore," he said suddenly, voice low.
She blinked. "I talk to you all the time."
"Yeah, but not about real stuff. Not like we used to."
Skie looked away. "Maybe we're not kids anymore."
"Maybe I miss it," he whispered.
She didn't say anything. And neither did he.
Not until Dylan burst into tears.
The Breaking Point
They found him near the edge of the lake, away from the crowd, his sketchbook torn and scattered like fallen leaves.
"Dylan!" Skie called, rushing over.
He turned, eyes wide and wet. "Don't—don't look at me like that."
Conner frowned. "What happened?"
Dylan laughed bitterly, wiping at his face. "I'm gay, okay? There. I said it. I like boys. I've always liked boys. And I'm scared out of my f—king mind that if my parents find out, I'll be thrown out or worse. And I didn't tell you guys because I thought maybe you'd hate me too."
The silence after was thick.
Skie stepped forward first, slow and careful, then wrapped her arms around him like she'd done since they were eight.
"Dylan Jung," she said, voice shaking, "you're my favorite kind of chaos. We don't hate you. We never could."
Conner took a moment longer. Then he stepped up too. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to hide that. Seriously. You're still our guy."
Dylan crumbled in their arms.
The three of them stood there under the moonlight, broken and stitched together all at once. For a moment, everything felt right again — raw, honest, and unfiltered.
But things weren't going back to the way they were.
They were moving forward.
Into something scarier, messier, more real.
Adulthood was coming — and they were finally starting to meet it, face first.