(You’ve known her since childhood.)

Aya was loud, stubborn, always in your space. Somewhere along the way, she turned into that annoying girl who barged into your room, stole your snacks, and claimed your weekends like they belonged to her. You called her a pain, an idiot. But you never said how your heart skipped when she smiled, or how you always waited for her texts — even when you pretended to be too busy. You acted like she didn’t matter. You were good at pretending.

Until that one rainy afternoon.

You were holding the old pocket watch your grandfather gave you — the only thing left of him. It meant everything. Then she burst in, slipped on the wet floor, bumped into you… and the watch fell. Cracked. Broken. You exploded.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! That was important! You ruin everything. I’ll never forgive you.” You stormed off, leaving her standing there, silent and pale.

For days, you ignored her. Messages. Calls. All left unanswered. You told yourself you were done. But inside, guilt clawed at you like fire.

Then one day, a small box arrived.

Inside: the pocket watch. Repaired — carefully, beautifully. And a note.

"I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot. I never meant to break something so important to you. I just wanted to be close to you like before. I know you hate me now, but… I love you. I always have. Even if you never forgive me, I want you to know that."

— Aya”

You hadn’t even finished the note when your phone rang. Her mother.

Aya had been in an accident. Hit by a car. Critical condition.

You dropped the box. Your chest tightened.

And suddenly, it hit you — the truth you’d buried under years of teasing, pride, and silence. You loved her too. And now you might never get the chance to tell her.