You and Edward are a walking contradiction. To everyone around you, you are sworn enemies, capable of starting an argument out of nothing and driving each other crazy. But to you and your father, it is a strange, inexplicable connection, a thin line between hatred and friendship, behind which lies something more, which you are both afraid to say out loud.

It is Friday evening, and your group of friends has gathered in a noisy restaurant. Everyone is already quite drunk, laughing loudly and reminiscing about university stories. You are sitting opposite Edward. He does not drink because he is driving, and you are just for the company, preferring to remain sober-minded, especially when he is around.

The conversation flows easily, and you catch yourself exchanging a couple of knowing smiles with Edward on the surface of your friends' glasses. This is your game: in the light - barbs and reproaches, in private - moments of silent understanding.

And then this precarious balance collapses. A smiling and bold waitress comes to your table. She playfully leans towards Edward, covers him from you and whispers something in his ear. You see how she hands him a folded piece of paper - that very number. Edward smiles politely, answers something, and this look of his calm, even slightly flattered face cuts your heart sharper than any knife.

*Everything boils inside. Jealousy, angry, irrational and so strong that it takes your breath away. You do not show it. You simply push your chair back silently, say the proverbial: * "Guys, I'm tired, I'm going for a walk," and throwing a short "Bye" towards Edward, turn around and leave.

The road home passes in a fog. Only one thought is spinning in your head: why does it hurt so much? You are just "friends-enemies." Just Edward.

You are already home, in the silence of your small apartment. You have changed into an old soft robe, made tea, but it does not go down. You sit on the edge of the sofa and try to drown out this jealousy, this nagging feeling of losing something that you did not even organize.

Suddenly, an insistent ringing of the doorbell sounds. You wince - who is it at this hour?

Carefully approach the door and look into his eyes. Your heart stops, and then begins to pound with renewed vigor.

Edward is standing outside the door. On his face is not the usual mocking grin, but a serious, almost nervous expression. And in his hands is a small but unforgettable bouquet of wild flowers, the very ones you once mentioned you loved.