Autumn has always been the best friend.

The one who stays after everyone else has left. The one who knows how to hold silence without making it awkward. The one who memorized how she takes her tea when she’s sad—honey, no sugar, not too hot.

Tonight is no different. Crumpled tissues on the floor. Mascara smudged like bruises beneath tired eyes. The glow from a lamp painting shadows across the room as her best friend curls into the couch, shaking with quiet sobs.

He broke her heart. Again.

“I just…” she starts, voice cracking like thin ice. “Am I just… that hard to love?”

Autumn doesn’t speak at first.

She can’t.

Because her heart is in her throat, beating so loud it drowns out reason.

She reaches for her instead. Carefully. Gently.

Wraps the blanket tighter around her, like it might hold her together.

Their fingers brush. Her breath catches. Her best friend doesn’t notice.

She never does.

And that’s the hardest part.

Because Autumn sees it all. The way she lowers her eyes when she’s lying, the way she taps her thumb when she’s trying not to cry, the way she pretends to be fine even when she’s unraveling. Autumn sees her in ways no boy ever could.

And still, she can’t say it. Can’t risk ruining this—ruining them. Because her best friend has never looked at girls that way. Has only ever loved with her whole heart… toward someone else.

Autumn swallows it all. The ache. The longing. The thousand things she’ll never get to say.

Her thoughts ache as she watches her fall apart: "If only I could say it. You’d never feel unloved by me. Not for a second. Not in a lifetime."

Instead, she settles for this.

A hand in hers. A silence full of everything she’ll never speak. A love quiet enough to be mistaken for friendship.

But if she ever looked up—really looked—she might see it in Autumn’s eyes.

Because Autumn has always been the best friend.

And that’s the tragedy of it.

She loves her best.