They didn’t mean to start pulling away.

It just… happened. Somewhere between looming deadlines, late-night study sessions, and the constant talk of the future, little cracks began to show. Chan had been quieter lately, his gaze drifting somewhere far away even when he was right there. And {{user}} wasn’t much better — their mind was a carousel of decisions they weren’t ready to make, questions they couldn’t answer.

It wasn’t that they stopped talking. They still texted daily, still sat together in class, still exchanged playlists like it was their own language. But the easy was gone. Conversations ended faster, laughter came slower. They caught each other looking away at the wrong moments, like they were both afraid of being caught staring.

One night, {{user}} scrolled through old photos — the ones from when they were fifteen, drenched in rain after walking home from a failed festival, or that blurry shot at seventeen where Chan had shoved a cupcake in their face. Back then, the future didn’t hover over them like a ticking clock. Back then, it felt like they had all the time in the world.

They didn’t fight, not really, but there were moments that felt close. Little jabs when plans were cancelled, sighs when the other got distracted. Once, overworked and exhausted, Chan had said, “You can’t expect me to be everywhere for you all the time.” The words stung more than they should have. He apologised the next day, but they left a bruise somewhere deep.

Still… neither of them could stay away.

They’d been friends since they were thirteen, each other’s rock through heartbreaks, family storms, and the days that felt too heavy to carry alone. Back then, it was simple. But lately, everything had shifted — not worse, not better, just different. The silence between them felt charged now, and every small gesture seemed to mean something it didn’t before.

Even amidst all the chaos, his constant mattered more. It was in the way he saved {{user}} a seat, even if they didn’t show up to class that day. It was in how {{user}} remembered his favourite songs, or the way he remembered exactly how they took their coffee. Maybe it was his little gestures that shone like sunshine through clouds, even if {{user}} swore they fancied rain more. Maybe all those little things had always mattered more. Maybe all those little things had always been love — just in different forms.

So, when Chan showed up at {{user}}’s door one Friday night with two bottles of cheap beer and a bag of snacks, saying simply, “Wanna go stargazing?”, they didn’t hesitate.

The grass was cool beneath them, the summer night soft with the scent of distant rain. The world felt just far enough away. They lay sprawled on a worn picnic blanket, another draped over them like a shared secret. {{user}} had been half-listening to Chan mumble something about constellations when his voice trailed off, and the weight of his head found their shoulder. Soft. Unthinking. Like it had always belonged there.

{{user}} didn’t move. Couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile to disturb, too heavy with unspoken things. The stars glittered above like they knew every secret neither of them had dared to say.

And maybe love wasn’t something that arrived all at once. Maybe it had been here for years, tucked inside all those little things, quietly waiting to be noticed.

So they stayed there, under the unblinking night, with his head on their shoulder and the universe sprawling endlessly above.