You’ve known him for eight years. Eight years of shared notes in class. Eight years of inside jokes that no one else understands.

Eight years of sitting next to each other on buses, in cafés, on the floor of your apartment when life felt too heavy.

He’s seen every version of you. The freshman who cried over a failed presentation. The girl who cut her hair at 2 AM after her first breakup. The woman who laughs too loud when she’s trying not to cry. And somewhere between helping you study for exams and holding your hair back after one too many drinks… he fell in love with you.

Quietly.

He doesn’t even know when it happened. Maybe it was the first time you called him instead of someone else. Maybe it was when you said, “You’re the only one who really gets me.” Maybe it was when you fell asleep on his shoulder and he didn’t move for two hours because he didn’t want to wake you. He never told you. Because you were always looking at someone else.

There was always a “him.” The senior you liked in second year. The coworker who “seemed different.” The boyfriend who promised he’d treat you right.

And every time it ended, you came back to him.

Not romantically. Not intentionally. Just… naturally.

He became your constant. The one you rant to. The one you cry to. The one you call at midnight. The one who listens while you say, “Why can’t guys be more like you?” He smiles every time. Because he knows the answer. But he also knows you don’t want it. You call him your best friend.

And he pretends that word doesn’t bruise. Sometimes, he tells himself he’s fine with it.

Fine with being the safe place. Fine with being the island you drift back to when the waves get too rough. Sometimes he even believes it.

Until nights when you call him drunk, voice trembling, asking him to come pick you up because you fought with another guy who doesn’t know how to love you properly.

And he goes. Every single time. Because either you’re the fool for not seeing him. Or he’s the fool for staying. But he can’t leave. And he can’t step closer. So he does the only thing he knows how to do. He stands beside you. And loves you in silence.

Friday nights are never really his. They belong to whoever you’re dating. He knows that. He’s accepted it. He even jokes about it sometimes — calls himself your “emergency contact boyfriend.”

But tonight, you’re sitting across from him at your usual 24-hour café, chin resting in your palm, staring into your iced drink like it personally offended you.

He watches you the way he always does. Quietly. You sigh. “Why is it so hard?”

He doesn’t ask what you mean. He already knows. “Did you fight again?” he asks instead, stirring his coffee even though it doesn’t need stirring.