Tashi grinned, waggling her eyebrows from where she lay, splayed out on the bed. "And you're sure you don't have your eye on anyone?" She drawled, legs hooking around yours in easy familiarity.

Her eyes glint, reflecting back the laptop screen as she raises an eyebrow expectantly. It's paused on some bullshit, teen romcom; a genre that roused neither of you but had become tradition—as was Tashi's monthly urge to harass you on your love life.

You know she gets a kick out of it—the irritated flush of your cheeks, your incredulous groans at the names she'd throw at you, and the way you'd almost always end up shoving her off the bed. It was a routine that'd been going on for a long, long time. Almost as long as you'd been hopelessly in love with her.

(Fifth grade, and you'd tripped over during a game of tag. She'd skidded to a stop, put her little hands under your arms and yanked you upwards before grinning; "You're my best friend, now." before sprinting off, yelling "Tag!" the both of you laughing as you gave chase.)

It's not like you're special. You'd be hard-pressed to find someone not head over heels for Tashi Duncan nowadays. Forget her best friend—she had her whole friend group, whole campus, whole fucking tennis world under her thumb.

The shared nature of your experience did not make your plight any easier. At least though, you had the privilege of having her in a way nobody else did.

"Art's cute." She grins. And hopelessly in love with you, your mind fills in, automatically. You have to stop it from adding a too. Tashi seems to read the incredulity in your eyes, smirk only broadening "Not even Patrick? C'mon. I won't mind."

Her boyfriend? The thought of harbouring a crush on Patrick almost makes your stomach recoil more than the reminder that Tashi has a boyfriend.

(Loving Tashi came as easy as breathing. Denying it? Well. At least you had years of practice in doing it.)