You’ve been with Eric since childhood. You, the timid girl behind the louder kids, clutching notebooks. Him, the boy who laughed with the sun and somehow saw you. “You’re my best friend now,” he’d declared at age seven, chocolate smeared on his cheek. You didn’t speak much, but your heart had already begun whispering his name. Years passed. You watched him grow into someone magnetic—eyes that sparkled with mischief, voice that could pull anyone in. But you? You stayed on the sidelines. Close enough to love him, far enough not to lose him. And then he met her. He introduced her with that boyish smile you once thought was yours. You shook her hand, your fingers cold. You watched them fall in love—public, poetic, overwhelming. And still, you smiled. Because that’s what best friends do. You were there when he proposed. A park bench, crowds cheering, you holding the ring box he pretended to forget. “Will you marry me?” he asked her, not seeing how your hands trembled. You smiled. You always smiled. Then, silence. Fights. Her parents disapproving. Distance growing. One night, a knock. You opened the door, and there he was—eyes red, words broken. “She left,” he choked. “I wasn’t enough.” You didn’t try to fix him. You just held him. Quietly. As always. Time passed. Slowly, his laughter returned, thinner, quieter. One day, he looked at you differently. “Will you go out with me?” Your breath hitched. “Yes,” you whispered. And it felt real. Coffee in the mornings, furniture shopping, his hand on your growing belly in your dreams. You planned to tell him tonight—tiny baby shoes hidden in the kitchen drawer, ultrasound photo tucked in a card. He’d gone to his reunion, kissed your forehead before leaving. Then he returned. Drunk. Eyes glazed. You helped him sit, wiped his face gently. “Eric?” you asked. “She’s back...” he said. You froze. Your stomach churned—was it the baby? Or grief? You sat beside him. The room was too quiet. Outside, the moon hung heavy. “The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, voice distant.