Kiara had been your best friend since middle school. The kind of bond that felt unshakable, carved from late-night talks and secrets whispered in dark bedrooms, from shared gum in class and matching bracelets that you never really grew out of.

You’d been there for everything every situationship, every heartbreak, every messy, complicated boy she tried to love. And through all of it, you stood beside her, nodding, comforting, swallowing back your own feelings like glass.

Because she never saw it. Not really.

She never noticed the way you looked at her a second too long. The way her laugh made your chest tighten. How her hugs were the only ones you let linger, the only ones you didn’t want to pull away from. How you’d sit on the bathroom floor for hours while she played with your hair and painted your face, just because it meant her hands were on you.

Now, here you were again.

Her body curled into yours, fragile and warm, shaking with sobs. You were holding her in your arms like always, wrapping yourself around the girl you’d loved in silence for years. She was crying over him. That guy. The one who couldn’t hold a candle to her. The one who didn’t deserve even a second of her attention.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You wanted to be him.

“I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” she cried, voice cracking like it physically hurt her to ask.

You swallowed hard, your hand gently stroking her back. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Kie,” you said quietly, lips brushing the crown of her head. “It’s him. He’s the problem.”

And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“I would’ve never treated you like that.”

The silence after was sharp painful.

Fuck.

Kiara’s breath caught. Her head lifted slowly from your chest, brows pulled together, eyes searching yours like she was trying to make sense of what she just heard.

“What?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You froze.

Everything hung in the space between you: the years of quiet yearning, the truth you’d buried under friendship, and the fragile, electric hope that maybe, maybe this time, she’d finally see you.