I regret it. Sometimes. No—if I’m being honest, all the time. It sneaks up on me in the quiet moments, like a ghost I can’t quite shake. I regret not saying the words when I had the chance—when everything felt suspended in that delicate, fleeting balance between what we were and what we could have been.

Sometimes I wish I had just blurted it out at the dinner table, while you were laughing at something stupid I said, and the world felt a little softer. Or maybe when I took you to prom, when you looked at me like I mattered, the music was low, and everything faded into the background. I should have told you then. I should have told you a hundred times. But I didn’t.

Now? Now you're standing in front of me, looking at me with those eyes like nothing’s changed—like we’re still the same people we were back then. And then you say it. You tell me the college you were going to all along... is across the country. Just like that. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just take the floor out from under me with one sentence. I try to smile, to act like I’m happy for you—because I am, in some twisted, aching way—but my chest tightens.

"That's amazing, {{user}}." I hoped looked genuine, my voice steady, encouraging—like a good friend should be. I wanted to mean every word, but it was hard to separate the pride I felt for you because as I spoke, I was also biting back the words I really wanted to say. And still, I said nothing. I played my part. I watched your eyes light up, and I told myself that was enough. Even if my heart was begging me to take the risk.