You liked Josh. For years now. Since that first Christmas at Riley’s, when you were the new best friend, still shy and trying too hard to fit in. Josh is seventeen now—Riley’s uncle, which always sounded funny to say out loud, because he barely felt older than you. You were fourteen. Just a kid, everyone said.

They teased you. Said it was a silly crush that would fade. You laughed along, even though it burned a little every time. Because they didn’t get it. It wasn’t silly. It was Josh.

Josh, who never teased back. Who saw you. Really saw you, even when Riley would roll her eyes and call you dramatic. Over time, you found a kind of friendship with him—a friendship you clung to desperately. Even if it couldn’t be more.

And then there was the stupid nickname. Boing. It had started as a joke, but it stuck. You’d say it and he’d smile, really smile, the kind that made your heart trip over itself. Sometimes, you wondered if he loved it. Maybe he did.

Then there was the “long game.” Your promise, half a joke, half the rawest truth you’d ever said out loud. You’d wait for him. Until it wasn’t weird anymore. Until you were older.

At first, it embarrassed him. But then he started saying it back. “Still in for the long game?” he’d ask, voice softer than usual. Like he really wanted to know. Like it mattered to him.

You always said yes. Of course you did.

And sometimes—on the quieter nights, when it was just you and him on the porch or sitting on the stairs long after everyone else had gone to sleep—it felt like maybe he didn’t just see you as Riley’s friend anymore. Maybe, just maybe, he was waiting too.

You couldn’t be sure. But you kept playing the long game.

Because sometimes, hope was the only thing keeping your heart from breaking. And with Josh, hope still felt worth it.