#mixtapes

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t clearly spend hours agonizing over the tracklist. “It’s not like… a thing. Just… you know. You made me one. So now I’m contractually obligated to return the favor.”

“But mine was a birthday gift,” you say, glancing down at it. “You didn’t have to.”

“Then consider this an early birthday gift.” He gestures vaguely. “A very early one. So early that it’s not sentimental, and therefore not weird.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So this isn’t weird.”

“Extremely normal. Guy makes a mix for his friend. She makes fun of it. They both pretend it didn’t take him 2 days.”

You smirk. “2 days?”

“I said pretend.”

You flip it over in your hands. No tracklist visible- of course not. Chandler wouldn’t make it that easy. “Should I be scared?”

“Depends. Do you like music?”

“Do you like me?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and throws a cheez-it at your head.

You don’t listen to it right away.

You wait until later that night; when your roommates are asleep, the city’s quiet, and you’re stretched out across your bed with headphones on, clutching the tape like it might bite you.

It starts with Rebel Rebel, and you actually laugh out loud. Of course he put that first. You got your mother in a whirl…

It’s arrogant and theatrical and Chandler-coded to hell. If the title didn’t give it away, this opening track screams, I like you, and I’m going to bully you about it.

Then it shifts.

You Make My Dreams (Come True). Ridiculous. Sincere. A complete tonal whiplash. You picture him bouncing awkwardly around his apartment while picking it- making a face like he’s too cool for Hall & Oates but smiling anyway.

6 songs later, when Crimson and Clover hits, you’re curled under your blankets, cheeks hot.

You can’t tell what he’s doing with the order. At first, it feels random. Then deliberate. Then very not-random. Songs you’ve danced to, songs you’ve mentioned in passing, songs you’ve never heard but somehow feel like him.

It’s sentimental without being sentimental. Sweet, then sharp. The Smiths and Bowie. Nods to your goth days in high school. Take On Me near the end, like a joke and a dare and a wink at the same time.

But what gets you- really gets you- is These Days.

Soft. Melancholy. Wistful.

You listen to it twice.

You try not to read into it. You try so hard.

But this doesn’t feel like a casual gift. It feels like Chandler, with all the armor stripped away, trying to tell you something in 14 carefully chosen songs.

You fall asleep with the headphones still on.

The tape clicks softly in the dark.

And even though no one says it- not yet, not out loud- you know this isn’t just a mixtape.

It’s a confession in disguise.

April 15th, 1994

It starts innocently enough.

You’re halfway through folding laundry on your bed when Rachel, in her usual whirlwind of hairspray and perfume, flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Do I wear the red top or the slutty red top?” She asked.

Monica appears in the doorway, armed with a can of diet coke and an unsolicited opinion. “Neither. You’re meeting his parents, not shooting a Whitesnake video.”

You snort, toss a towel into the basket, and return to your socks. “And just like that, Monica makes her grand entrance… armed and condescending.”

Monica rolls her eyes, Rachel whines, and the chaos continues; until Rachel leans back against your pillows, freezes, and pulls something from under your comforter.

A cassette tape.

She squints at the label. “Mixtape for a Brat?”

Your head snaps up. “Hey- don’t touch that.”

But it’s too late. Rachel’s eyes are already lighting up, and Monica practically teleports across the room.

“Wait,” Monica says slowly, eyes narrowing. “Is that… from Chandler?”

You say nothing.

Rachel gasps. “It is, isn’t it?! Oh my God.”

“It’s not a thing,” you say quickly, reaching for it, but Rachel holds it out of reach like she’s discovered classified evidence. “He was just being a brat. I made him one for his birthday, so he made me one. It’s like… revenge.”

“Revenge?” Monica repeats. “You think this is revenge?” She grabs the case, flips it over. “There’s no track list.”

“Obviously,” you mutter. “Like he’d make it that easy.”

Rachel’s eyes sparkle. “That means it’s serious. You hide the track list when it’s emotional.”

You throw a pillow at her. “That’s not a real rule.”

“Yes, it is,” Monica and Rachel say in unison.

You groan, flopping back onto the bed. “Guys. It’s just a mixtape.”

Monica plops beside you. “You know what Joey gave me once? A box of Raisinets and a high five. Chandler made this. That’s not friendly. That’s personalized emotional curation.”

“Yeah,” Rachel adds, waving the tape. “This is like… musical foreplay.”

You snort. “Okay, well, that’s the worst phrase I’ve ever heard.”

They both stare at you.

Monica raises an eyebrow. “Have you listened to it yet?”

You hesitate. “…Maybe.”

Rachel gasps. “And?!”

You sit up, suddenly defensive. “And nothing. It’s… very Chandler. Loud. Sarcastic.”

Monica leans in. “But was it, like, secretly sweet?”

Rachel waggles her eyebrows. “Did it make you feel… things?”

You huff and try to snatch the tape back again. “I’m not doing this.”

They both tackle you. Monica grabs your wrist while Rachel dives for the tape. Somehow the three of you collapse in a heap of tangled limbs and soft shrieks. You manage to wrench the cassette back and hold it to your chest like it’s a family heirloom.

“I swear to God,” you say, breathless, “if either of you tells him how many times I've played it, I’ll put nair in your shampoo.”

Monica grins. “You just admitted you’re obsessed with it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Rachel nudges you. “You didn’t have to.”

You scowl, but your cheeks burn anyway.

Outside, the faint sound of a hallway door opening and closing makes you all freeze. A moment passes. Then Monica whispers:

“Is that him?”

You shoot up. “Hide the tape!”

Rachel shoves it under a pillow. Monica throws a blanket over your lap like it’s going to mask your guilt. You all sit up straight, very casual. Very innocent.

The door doesn’t open.

False alarm.

Still, your heart races. Because for a second, you think: What if he walked in? What if he saw your face right now?

You glance at the pillow hiding the tape.

And then, just to be safe, you double-check that the volume on your Walkman is still turned way down.

You’re barely in the door when you hear it:

Music, faint and crackling through cheap speakers.

Duran Duran. Girls on Film.

You freeze.

That’s… suspicious. Monica only plays this kind of music when she’s cleaning the oven in a rage. Rachel doesn’t usually dip into synth-pop unless she’s three drinks deep and feeling nostalgic. And Phoebe once described new wave as “music that sounds like robots doing cocaine.”

You drop your bag on the couch and head toward Monica's room.

What you find is somehow worse than you imagined.

Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe are huddled around Monica’s stereo like it’s about to give them government secrets. Monica holds the cassette case in her hand. Rachel’s got a notepad for some reason, and Phoebe is laid dramatically across the floor like she’s watching a mixtape seance unfold.

You blink. “Nooo.”

Rachel glances up. “Hey!”

You lunge forward. “Is that—? Oh my god. Where did you get that?!”

Monica answers without missing a beat. “Chandler’s apartment.”

“We stole it.” Phoebe adds dreamily.

“Borrowed it,” Monica corrects, like that makes a difference.

You snatch the tape out of her hands. “This is the mixtape I made him!”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “We know. We wanted to listen to the one he made you but somebody can’t leave it alone for five minutes, so we settled.”

You gape. “You broke into his music collection?!”

“He left it out,” Monica says innocently. “Right next to his stereo. Practically public property.”

“Plus,” Phoebe says, “we figured it was either this or sit in silence and contemplate our poor life decisions.”

You drop onto the bed, scandalized. “Mixtapes are sacred! There’s a code!”

Rachel waves her notepad. “Relax, it’s actually really good. Like, I didn’t know you had range.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m going to die.”

Rachel leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Be honest. Did you put Like a Virgin on there because you thought it would kill him?”

You peek out through your fingers. “I put it on there because he likes that song."

Monica grins wildly. “Wait- Chandler likes Madonna?”

Rachel gasps. “Oh my god. I bet that's his guilty pleasure."

Phoebe clutches her heart. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You groan. “Can we not make a thing out of this?”

Monica shakes her head slowly. “Too late. It’s already a thing.”

“He walked in while we were listening,” Rachel says. “Looked horrified, said something about needing a snack, and fled.”

Phoebe smiles. “He turned the colour of a turnip. It was adorable.”

You groan. “Great. Now he thinks I made the whole thing just to flirt with him."

“Oh, he already thought that,” Monica says. “This just confirmed everything.”

Rachel adds, “You might as well have spray-painted I Have Feelings for You across the case.”

“I alphabetized it! It's not like there's some hidden message."

“But you still led with a song from the album you were listening to when you met,” Monica says smugly. “That’s emotional warfare disguised as Canadian indie rock.”

“I hate you all.”

Phoebe pats your knee. “That’s just the shame talking.”

The stereo clicks, and Like a Virgin starts playing again. Rachel howls with laughter. Monica grins.

You groan and dramatically slide off of the bed and onto the floor. “I swear to god, if any of you tell him I’ve been listening to his tape on loop-”

Rachel grins. “We don’t have to. He already knows.”

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