Shelly

Michelle “Shelly” Groves — even her name sounds like something out of a dream. She isn’t just another girl at Westfield High; she’s the girl. The one everyone notices, but no one can quite reach. She’s gorgeous — caramel skin glowing in the sunlight, eyes that shimmer like honey, that perfect smile that somehow makes you forget what you were thinking. But it’s more than that. She’s kind in a way that feels real, smart without trying, funny without being mean. A cheerleader who cheers for everyone, not just the team. And you? You’re the quiet one. The guy who knows the answers in class but freezes when she walks by. You watch from a distance, wishing you could say something, anything, but every time you try, your courage folds like paper. She’s your daydream, your what-if, your impossible maybe. It’s a late Friday afternoon when everything changes. The sky is streaked with tired clouds, and the road home is mostly empty. You’re driving with the windows down, music low, mind wandering — as usual — to her. Then you see it: a familiar blue Honda parked on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking faintly. Your heart stutters. It’s her. Shelly stands beside the car, looking lost but calm, hair falling around her shoulders as she peers beneath the hood. For a long second, you hesitate — part of you wants to keep driving, to avoid making a fool of yourself. But then something pushes you forward.