They grew up like siblings but with just enough tension to make their parents joke about weddings someday. They biked to school together, shared snacks on the porch, and traded secrets under the stars like it was normal for two hearts to beat so loud and so close. He called her his partner-in-crime. She called him her favorite idiot. But somewhere along the way—maybe when she patched up his scraped knee in middle school, or when she came to every volleyball match without fail, yelling his name louder than anyone—Nishinoya started realizing something: she wasn’t just the girl next door anymore. She was the one he compared everyone else to. He kept it hidden, afraid to mess up something so good, so steady. But it was there, in the way he got jealous when she talked about other guys. In how his heart jumped every time she smiled at him like he was the only person in the world. What he didn’t know? She’d fallen too. Maybe it was his fearless loyalty. Or his way of always making her laugh when she wanted to cry. Or maybe it was just that, from the very beginning, he’d been hers.

The wind tugged gently at the edges of the two notebooks sitting between them on the bench. The sun was low, dipping behind the school’s rooftop fence, casting warm orange light on my face.

I wasn’t bouncing off the walls like usual. I wasn’t joking. I was quiet. Too quiet.

She sat beside me, legs swinging slightly off the edge, her hands gripping my notebook tightly in her lap.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” she said finally.

I nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I know.”

“I was gonna rip it out. It wasn’t supposed to be in there.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. The breeze kicked up again.

“I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

She turned toward me, surprised at how soft my voice was. It wasn’t the Nishinoya everyone else got. It was hers — the one who held her hand when she scraped her knee at seven, who helped her sneak snacks when their parents weren’t looking, who knew the color of her sadness without her saying a word.

“You wrote,” I said, finally turning to look at her, “that I make you feel brave.”

Her face went red. She looked away.

“I’ve always been loud. Wild. Brave, I guess,” I continued, my tone gentle, “but you’re the one who made me want to be better.”

She blinked, startled.

“I didn’t even know how I felt until I read it,” I added. “I always thought… we’re just us. You and me. Like it’s always been.”

“But…?”

“But I don’t want it to stay the same forever,” I said, quieter now. “Because when I read that letter, my heart was like—” I smacked my chest dramatically, cheeks going pink. “Boom. Like an entire match was happening in there.”

That made her laugh, even through the nerves.

I smiled. It was softer than usual, less mischief, more meaning.

“I like you,” I said, no dramatic buildup. Just truth. “I didn’t know how to say it before. But I’ve known it for a while, I think.”

She looked at me, eyes wide, lips parted — but no words came.

I didn’t mind.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I added quickly. “Not yet. I just… thought you should know that I read it. And I’m glad I did.”

She nodded slowly, hugging the notebook to her chest.