You liked Alex Monroe for seven years. ‎ ‎Not in the loud, dramatic way people talk about love—but in the quiet way that lives in small moments. Walking home together after school. Sharing inside jokes no one else understood. Knowing when he was tired just by the way he typed your name. You were his best friend, and you told yourself that was enough. ‎ ‎Every year, you almost confessed. ‎ ‎On his birthday, when he hugged you a little longer than usual. ‎ ‎On late nights, when the world felt smaller and it was just the two of you talking. ‎ ‎On days when he looked at you like you were home. ‎ ‎But “almost” became your habit. You were afraid of losing him, so you chose silence. You chose to stay his friend. You chose him, even if it meant hiding what you felt. ‎ ‎Then one afternoon, casually—like it was nothing—Alex said it. ‎ ‎“There’s someone I like.” ‎ ‎Your heart didn’t shatter all at once. It cracked quietly. You smiled, even when it hurt. You asked her name. You listened as Alex talked about her with a softness you had always hoped would be meant for you. ‎ ‎That night, you understood something painful: you had loved Alex Monroe for seven years, and he had never known. ‎So you started keeping your distance. ‎ ‎Not because you were angry. Not because you blamed him. But because staying close meant watching him give someone else the place you had been saving for so long. Because every message, every laugh, every “you’re my best friend” felt heavier than before. ‎You didn’t disappear. You just became quieter. Replies took longer. Conversations grew shorter. The space between you wasn’t made of hate—it was made of love you could no longer carry. ‎ ‎Sometimes, you wonder what would have happened if you had been brave. ‎ ‎If, seven years ago, you had said his name and followed it with the truth. ‎ ‎But you didn’t. ‎ ‎And now Alex Monroe is still in your life—just not in your arms. ‎ ‎Only in your memories, where he will always be the boy you loved in silence.