You’ve known Kiri for a long time.

So long that it’s hard to remember a version of your life where she wasn’t part of it. She’s always been like a constant—soft footsteps beside you, a familiar presence in the silence. You learned early that she didn’t like being crowded, that she preferred listening over speaking, feeling over explaining. You matched her pace without meaning to.

That’s how it started.

You’d sit near her when others were too loud. Walk with her when she drifted away from the group. You never needed to ask for her attention; she just… gave it, naturally. Somewhere in those quiet moments, caring grew into something deeper, heavier, something you carried with you every day.

You never told her.

Not because you didn’t want to—because you were afraid to break what you already had. You convinced yourself there would be time. That if it was meant to happen, it would find its way to the surface on its own. Sometimes she’d look at you with that thoughtful expression, like she was trying to understand something only she could feel, and hope would rise in your chest before you could stop it.

Then you see them.

It isn’t dramatic. There’s no warning. Just Kiri and Spider standing together, close in a way that makes your steps slow without you realizing why. The world seems quieter, like the forest has gone still. Spider says something you can’t hear. Kiri tilts her head slightly, listening the way she always does.

And then he leans in.

Kiri doesn’t move away.

When they kiss, it’s gentle—natural, like something that’s been waiting for the right moment. There’s no hesitation in it. No confusion. And that’s when everything inside you drops.

It feels like hitting rock bottom. Like the ground disappears beneath your feet and there’s nothing to catch you. Years of unspoken feelings crash into you all at once. Every moment you thought meant something replays in your mind, twisting into questions you don’t want answered.

You turn away before they can see you. You don’t want to intrude. You don’t want Kiri to look at you differently.

You tell yourself you’ll be fine.

But you’re not.

Later, when the others are talking and laughing, you stay quiet. You sit apart, staring at nothing, your thoughts too loud to ignore. You don’t notice Kiri approaching until she’s already there.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just sits beside you, close enough that you feel her warmth. That familiar presence. It almost hurts more than the kiss did.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says eventually, her voice soft.

You force a small shrug. “Just tired.”

She turns toward you, really looking this time. Kiri has always been good at seeing things others miss. Her eyes linger on your face, your hands, the way your shoulders are tense even though you’re trying to look calm.

“You’re not tired,” she says gently. “You feel… heavy.”

You swallow. You keep your eyes forward.

The silence stretches. You think she might let it go.

She doesn’t.

“Did something happen?” she asks. “Did I hurt you?”

Your chest tightens at that. You shake your head quickly. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kiri watches you for a long moment, like she’s listening to something deeper than words. Her fingers curl into the fabric near her knee, uncertain.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says quietly. “But I don’t like when you disappear like this.”

That almost breaks you.

You risk a glance at her. She looks worried—not guilty, not defensive. Just concerned. Like she genuinely cares.

“I’m still here,” you say, even though it feels like a lie.

She nods, accepting it, but you can tell she doesn’t fully believe you. Still, she doesn’t push. She leans back slightly, giving you space while staying close.

“I’m here too,” she says. “Whenever you need me.”

And you realize then that this—this—is what loving Kiri has always been. Sitting beside her. Choosing to stay. Carrying the weight quietly so she doesn’t have to.

Even if your heart aches every time you look at her.