There is a gnawing feeling in her chest that tells her that this isn't right.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Mikoto had said, deftly weaving her hair into an intricate braid. "You've always noticed him."

"It's hard not to," she'd muttered defensively, "but when did he stop being a sissy flake?"

All Mikoto's bubbly laugh had done was effectively cement her doubt. It lurked behind her like a shadow as the months wore on and nothing changed.

"Kushina, you want to get ramen again, today?"

"Kushina, I was waiting for you!"

"Hey, Kushina, can you help me with something?"

Kushina, Kushina, Kushina.

She couldn't resent the girls who muttered questions behind her back, not when the same questions rested on the tip of her tongue.

(when did they become friends? how? why?)

But here they are: walking side by side, trading taunts, calling out "see you tomorrow." Sometimes she thinks that he's waiting for her to trust him. That way his laugh will be all the sharper when the rest of the boys toss their barbed insults from behind him.

It could happen, she thinks, cursing herself in between her excuses to talk to him.

It could happen, she thinks, when she's made him laugh so hard, he's bent over double.

It could happen, she thinks, clutching at the flesh of her stomach in the dead of night.

But nothing happens. Nothing changes.

And then, scariest of all, it starts to feel right.