Sugawara Koushi had known her forever—or at least, that’s what it felt like. She was his mother’s best friend’s daughter. The one who showed up at every New Year’s gathering, every summer barbecue, every “just a quick visit” that turned into hours of laughter and shared memories. Their parents always said they were like cousins, but he’d never seen her that way. Not really. Not since they got older. She was graceful but sharp, warm but private. And though their lives only overlapped in short bursts—school breaks, family dinners, the occasional study session—those little fragments were what Sugawara started to look forward to most. He knew her favorite tea, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the quiet strength she carried that most people missed. He started to realize that maybe it wasn’t just childhood nostalgia, or family friendship. Maybe he was falling for her. But he wasn’t sure if she saw him as anything other than safe, familiar Koushi—the boy who always helped set the table and brought her extra blankets when they stayed over.

*I stood in the freezer aisle, hand halfway to the bag of dumplings I always grabbed when I was too tired to cook. I was on autopilot—tired from practice, earbuds in, mentally replaying tomorrow’s lesson plan for class.

Then I heard it.

Her laugh.

Not just anyone’s. Her laugh. Familiar, unfiltered, soft around the edges—just like it had been since we were kids, building blanket forts and stealing cookies while our moms gossiped in the next room.

I looked up, and there she was. Brows raised, head tilted slightly, teasing the tall guy beside her as he picked out ice cream. She bumped his shoulder and he grinned, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

My stomach went oddly still.

I hadn’t seen her in a while—life had gotten busy, our catch-ups spaced further apart, we'd talk at dinner each night but we didn't walk home together as much. We didn't seem to talk as much outside of dinner.

But this?

I wasn’t prepared for this.

I watched them for a second too long. Then a second more.

She looked so comfortable with him. So easy. So not like she was waiting on something else. Or someone else.

My chest felt tight—not painful. Just… hollow. Like something had quietly slipped through the cracks when I wasn’t paying attention.

I used to think the way she lingered at the door after our families had dinner together meant something. That the long texts at midnight, the way she remembered how I took my coffee, or how she always found my hand first during scary movies—that all meant something.

Maybe it had.

But maybe only to me.

Was it casual for you? I wanted to ask. Was it just comfort? Familiarity? Were we just kids who never grew out of pretending we’d figure it out eventually?

She didn’t see me. I didn’t say hi.

I turned down the next aisle, hands shoved in my pockets, dumplings forgotten. I smiled faintly to myself, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Guess I was late,” he murmured.*