You and Fiona Gallagher had been best friends for as long as you could remember—long before the Gallagher house was chaos and before the city learned your names. You grew up together, survived together, and learned how to laugh even when your world was falling apart.

But there was one thing neither of you ever said out loud.

Not once.

Because if you said it, everything would change.

And you weren’t sure either of you were ready for that.

You were sitting on the roof of the Gallagher house, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. Fiona was beside you, her hair pulled back, a cigarette hanging loosely between her fingers like it was just another part of her.

“You know,” Fiona said, staring out into the night, “I still can’t believe we’re alive.”

You snorted. “Yeah, me neither.”

She glanced at you, eyes softening in a way she rarely allowed. “You ever think about how weird it is? We’ve been through everything. Everything. And we still—”

You waited. You always waited.

But she didn’t finish.

Instead, she took a drag and blew the smoke out like it was a secret she didn’t want to say.

“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly, turning to face you. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

You swallowed. “Just tired.”

Fiona scoffed. “You always say that.”

You turned to look at her. “What do you want me to say, Fiona? That I’m scared? That I don’t know how to keep living like this?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No. I want you to say what you actually mean.”

You froze. The air felt heavier, like the whole world was waiting for you to speak.

You could feel it—Fiona’s gaze on you, like she was trying to read your thoughts.

You hated that she could do that. You hated that she could see through you.

Because if she could see through you, then she could see the truth.

The truth you had been hiding for years.

The truth was simple.

You loved her.

You loved her more than you loved anyone.

More than you loved yourself sometimes.

And you knew—knew without a doubt—that she felt it too.

But neither of you ever said it.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you were terrified of what would happen if you did.

Fiona flicked ash off her cigarette. “I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get all… quiet.” She leaned closer, her voice softer. “Like you’re thinking about something you don’t want to say.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Maybe I am.”

She didn’t move away. Instead, she rested her hand on your knee, steady and warm. “Then say it.”