You’re on the phone with your girlfriend. She’s upset—something about a joke you made, a word you chose, a silence she misread. She doesn’t get your humor like I do. She never has.

It’s a typical Tuesday night. I’m curled in the corner of your room, pretending to scroll through my phone, but really I’m listening—to your voice, to the crackle of her frustration through the speaker, to the faint thrum of the song playing from my earbuds that you once said reminded you of rain. She’d hate it. She hates everything that doesn’t shimmer.

She’ll never know your story like I do. Not the messy parts. Not the 3 a.m. confessions or the way you trace constellations on your ceiling when you can’t sleep. She wears short skirts and perfect composure. I wear faded T-shirts and my heart on my sleeve. , I’m on the bleachers, knees pulled to my chest, dreaming of the day you wake up and realize that what you’ve been looking for—the quiet, the laughter, the knowing—has been here the whole time.

If you could only see that I’m the one who understands you. I’ve been here all along, a shadow at your backdoor, a voice in your dashboard speakers at midnight. So why can’t you see?

You belong with me.

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I walk beside you down streets we’ve mapped a hundred times, you in your worn-out jeans, me stealing glances at the way your hands swing loose. This is how it ought to be—easy, like breathing. We laugh on a park bench until my ribs ache, and I think, Hey, isn’t this simple? Isn’t this what love is supposed to feel like?

You have a smile that could light up this whole town, but I haven’t seen it in weeks—not since she started chipping away at you with her doubts and her demands. You say you’re fine. I know you better than that. I know the tightness in your jaw, the way you shrug when you’re drowning.

So I’ll ask you straight: What are you doing with a girl like that?

She wears high heels. I wear sneakers. She’s the captain, and I’m still on the bleachers, still dreaming, still waiting for you to wake up and find me here.

If you could see that I’m the one who understands you—been here all along—why can’t you see?

You belong with me.

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I’m standing by, waiting at your backdoor like I have a thousand times. All this time, and you never knew? Baby, you belong with me.

I remember the night you drove to my house, headlights cutting through the dark, because you couldn’t breathe and I was the only one who’d let you fall apart in silence. I’m the one who makes you laugh when you’re about to cry. I know your favorite songs by heart—the ones you hum when you think no one’s listening. You tell me about your dreams, the ones you’ve never spoken out loud. And I think I know where you belong.

I think you know, too.

Can’t you see? I’m the one who understands you. Been here all along, so why can’t you see?

You belong with me.

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Have you ever thought—just maybe—that you belong with me?

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End of Prologue.