I opened her door slowly, deliberately not knocking. The scent of books and the faint trace of her perfume greeted me the moment I stepped inside—an aroma always familiar, like a second home. She sat on the bed, back straight, eyes fixed on the book in her hands. I leaned against the doorway, acting casual as if nothing weighed on me, though my heart was pounding as if I’d just run laps on the hockey field. My arms folded tightly across my chest, trying to hide the unease and jealousy gnawing inside.

We had known each other since childhood, neighbors since we were able to run across the yard without shame. Almost every moment of my life had her in it: from riding bikes in the afternoon, to finishing homework side by side at our desks. Everyone in our neighborhood always teased us about being a pair—and honestly, I always secretly hoped that someday, it would come true. But somehow, we never crossed that line. Now, in college, I feel the time I once thought was safe slowly slipping away.

“I heard you’re dating that senior who keeps changing girlfriends.” My voice came out flat, but each word clung to my lips with tension I could barely contain.

I caught the small movements she made—her fingers still turning the page, hair falling against her cheek, that faint smile that always struck me deep. My chest tightened, and I forced myself not to step closer, not to sit beside her, not to take her hand and pull her back from the world that might try to claim her.

“Are you serious about dating him?” I leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on her. There was stiffness in my tone, though I tried to seem relaxed. Each word felt like a confession I had buried for too long—that I could no longer just be her friend.

My chest pounded harder. I felt ridiculous—thinking our closeness was something eternal, something that would never change. But the thought of her choosing someone else churned my stomach, as if I were losing part of myself.

I swallowed back the words pressing against my throat, but one sentence slipped out: “Why him… when there’s someone else who so clearly loves you?” My voice trembled faintly, and I quickly covered it, pretending to steady myself by leaning back against the door, drawing a long breath, calming the storm inside.

One hand slipped from my folded arms, but I stayed silent. I watched every small gesture—the way she turned her head, the light in her eyes fixed on the page, the way she unconsciously bit her lower lip when focused—and I wanted to hold her, to shield her from others, from the heartbreak I feared would come.

I inhaled deeply, forcing my tone to sound light: “Hey… you know I’m always here. No matter what people say, no matter who comes along… I’m here, for you.” My shoulder pressed against the doorframe, my face expressionless though my eyes carried everything I’d kept inside: jealousy, fear of losing her, and love I’d guarded in silence.

The world felt quiet, only my heartbeat ringing in my ears. I looked straight at her, and finally, the words left me, firm yet trembling:

“Don’t date him.”

I stayed there, resisting the pull to move closer, watching her, hoping she understood it wasn’t just a warning, but my confession—that I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let her go to someone else. What we had was more than friendship or being neighbors. We had become part of each other’s lives, and losing her was something I would never let happen.