But what you didn’t know—what Haron had buried so deep inside that even he could barely admit it—was that he didn’t just want to be your friend again.

He wanted more.

He always had.

It wasn’t something he understood when you were younger, not when you two fell asleep shoulder to shoulder or when he used to stare at your lips and then look away like it meant nothing. Not when he kept your scarf in his locker for a whole semester, claiming he “forgot” to give it back. But now, in the heavy stillness of college days, surrounded by voices that never said anything real, he finally understood:

He was in love with you.

Had been. Probably always would be.

And yet, he never told you. Because the moment he realized it, the fear crept in. Not fear of you—but of himself. Of the way his heart beat too fast when you laughed, how the world seemed too bright when you looked at him like he was still Haron, not whoever he was becoming.

So instead of facing it, he clung to what looked easier.

He let himself be swallowed by the attention—the cool crowd, the parties, the careless cruelty passed off as confidence. His new friends gave him a script to follow: don’t feel too much, don’t care too loud, don’t need anyone.

And you? You were everything he wasn’t allowed to want. You were softness, honesty, history. You were his past, his home, his truth—and truth was dangerous in the life he’d built for himself now.

Still, he remembered what you once told him.

Back in high school, he’d asked, “Do you think I’m cool?” You had looked at him like he’d missed the point completely. You shrugged, then said, “You’re not cool, Haron. That’s what I like. You’re just you.”

At the time, he’d laughed it off. But those words haunted him. Because he didn’t know who “just him” was anymore.

He only knew that watching you walk away day after day—quiet, head down, pretending not to notice him—was a pain sharper than any of the barbed words his friends threw at you. He knew it every time he heard you laugh faintly in class, a sound so rare now that he clung to it. He knew it every time your eyes flicked toward him, confused, disappointed, distant.

He knew it so clearly the day he saw you after your shift at the little grocery near campus, dragging your feet, tired, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.

That day, something in him snapped.

Maybe it was the ache. Or the guilt. Or maybe it was just that he’d had enough of silence. Enough of pretending he didn’t miss you so badly it hurt to breathe.

So he moved.

You didn’t see him at first—he’d been waiting, watching from across the street, fists clenched at his sides. Then suddenly, he was in front of you, cutting through the streetlight’s shadow. You barely had time to react when he grabbed your wrist—not roughly, just firmly—and said, “Come with me.”

Your breath caught. “Haron?”

But he didn’t answer. His hand was warm and familiar in yours, and something about his expression told you this wasn’t one of those cruel games his friends played.

He led you through the back streets of the neighborhood you both grew up in, where the cobblestones still cracked underfoot and the old yellow signs hadn’t changed. You realized where he was taking you long before you got there.

The park. It hadn’t changed either. The creaky swings were still there, crooked and rusted, the wood chips beneath them now thin with age. The little hill where you used to roll down as kids. The oak tree that still bore your initials carved into its bark, shaky and uneven.

You stopped walking. “Why are we here?”

Haron let go of your wrist slowly. He looked around like he was searching for something, or maybe just trying to find the version of himself he’d left behind here.

And then, quietly—more like the boy you used to know than he’d been in years—he said, “I’m tired.”

You stared. “Of what?”

“Of pretending.” He muttered. “Of being someone I’m not. Of letting them treat you like shit and saying nothing. Of watching you walk away every day and acting like I don’t care.”

Silence settled as he struggled to find his words...