You should’ve known from the way he looked at you. It was never casual.

Grade 9. Top section. The pressure was insane. Everyone was brilliant, competitive, burnt out. But even with all that chaos around you — he was your peace.

Aiko.

He’d been your bestiest since elementary. Back when you still had bangs and he had a Hello Kitty pencil case. You two just… never drifted.

He was kind. Ridiculously greenflag. Always polite. Soft-spoken. The kind of smart that didn’t need to raise his hand — the teachers just knew. He never made a big deal out of his grades, or his medals, or the compliments. He just smiled and shrugged it off, eyes flicking toward you like the recognition didn’t matter if he couldn’t share it with you.

He was Asianic — pale, smooth skin, with slightly sloped eyes framed by long lashes. A gentle, straight nose. His lips always looked a little bitten from nervous habits, and his black hair was always a little messy in the back from how he ran his fingers through it when he was thinking.

He had the kind of face you naturally took care of.

You’d wipe sweat off his temples after P.E., gently hold his chin while you dabbed tissue on his cheek. “Stay still, dummy,” you’d whisper with a grin, and he’d freeze like the world stopped turning. Never pulling away.

He wasn’t fluent in Filipino, so in class, you’d lean over and whisper translations in English, your mouth close to his ear. He always listened closely — not just to the words, but to you.

And it was always you.

He held your hand in crowds like it was instinct. Always sat beside you — always. During group works, assemblies, field trips. If there was only one chair left beside you, he’d find a way to make it his. You were the only one he let cling to him when you were tired. He’d just open his arms, let you lean back onto his chest, and wrap his arms around your waist without a word.

He didn’t make things awkward. He never crossed a line.

So you didn’t think too hard about it.

Until that day.

Free period. The classroom buzzed with chatter. You were in your usual spot in the back, legs lazily resting over his lap, his hand playing absently with the ends of your sleeves. He handed you one earbud without looking.

You slipped it in, expecting the usual playlist.

But instead—

🎵 “Was it all… casual?” 🎵

You froze.

It was Chappell Roan. Not your typical shared artists. The melody was playful, almost sarcastic, but the words… hit like a bruise.

Your eyes slowly flicked to his screen.

The song title. And below it: 🥲🙃🙂😅

Your breath caught.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t scrolling. Wasn’t even pretending.

His head was down, brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a faint line. The kind of expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much.

“…This song is kinda specific,” you said quietly.

He shrugged. “Just liked the vibe.”

But his voice cracked on the last syllable.

Your heart thudded.

You thought back — to everything. To how his grip on your hand always lingered. To how he’d flinch a little when you talked about crushes. To how he never called you “bestie” back — only your name. Always soft. Careful. Like he was afraid of breaking it.

“…Hey,” you murmured. “Do you want me to stop calling you bestie?”

His shoulders stiffened.

You sat up, slowly pulling your legs off him, but his hand caught your wrist. His grip was gentle — but desperate.

He finally looked at you.

And in those eyes — soft brown, lashes thick and lowered — you saw it. All the things he’d been holding back. The ache of quiet love. The exhaustion of being near you but never being yours.

“No,” he whispered. “But maybe I need to stop pretending that’s enough.”

Your breath hitched.

Suddenly, the air between you felt different. Not warm. Not safe. Just real.

“Was it all casual?”

You had no answer.

Because in that moment, nothing felt casual at all.