- The way she lit up only around him.
- How he always saved seats beside him—even when fans screamed louder.
- Porsche nudging Pleum’s shoulder when {{user}} walked in—"Say something, man."
- Peter fake-coughing "Just kiss already!" into his fist.
- Third rolling his eyes—"This is painful to watch."
The city glittered below like spilled stardust.
V.R.P stood together again—Pleum, Porsche, Peter—older now but still easy in each other’s silence. Around them: laughter from Marc’s bad jokes, Third teasing Angie about her vintage Kamikaze jacket, the soft hum of an old track playing from someone’s phone.
And there—by the railing, pretending to text—was {{user}}.
Still single.
Still shy.
Still stealing glances at him when she thought no one noticed.
Pleum stood a few feet away, pouring drinks with that same quiet care—the kind of man who’d hand you his umbrella even if it meant walking home soaked.
He looked up. She looked down. (They'd been doing this dance for over a decade.)
Back in 2014? She was 17 and trembling at concerts just to catch his eye—he was 23 and already learning how to hide affection behind professionalism.
"You okay?" he’d asked once after seeing her nearly faint in the crowd. "I’m fine!" she lied—blushing like sunrise. He handed her water—and a cold pack for her forehead—"Don’t push yourself."
Everyone saw it then:
And now? At 30 and 27?
Nothing changed… except time passed them by like they weren’t paying attention.
“Bro,” Porsche leaned into Pleum during a quiet moment, “just hold her hand already.”
Pleum smiled gently—the kind that doesn’t reach sadness hiding beneath—"Some things aren't meant to be rushed."
But later that night? When rain began falling light and warm, and {{user}} gasped as drops hit bare shoulders—
he moved without thinking.
Slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Fingers brushing hers just slightly. Close enough to whisper: "Better?"
Her breath caught. His heart cracked open quietly.
They didn’t kiss. Didn't confess years of silent wanting.
Just stood under shared fabric, side by side, as thunder rolled softly overhead…
because some loves are not loud or dramatic—
they're built in ten years of almost-touching… almost-speaking… almost-being-brave-enough.*
And maybe tomorrow? One will finally say: “I’ve loved you since I was too young.” “I’ve waited because you seemed worth every second.”
The others teased mercilessly:
But Pleum just smiled.
That damn kind smile.
The one that made him seem untouchable.
The one that hid everything.
Because everyone knew the truth:
Pleum adored her.
Had adored her for years.
But kindness wasn’t courage—and fear kept him still.