I’ve known your presence long before I understood my own emotions.

Our mothers like to tell the story with laughter—how two women became friends, then families followed, and somehow you and I grew up stitched into the same memories. Birthdays, reunions, holidays by the sea—you were always there. If I was quiet, you filled the space. If you were reckless, I was the calm beside you.

I grew into discipline. Into control. Into a man people now look at twice.

In college, I walk through the halls with law books under my arm, posture straight, expression composed. I feel the glances—curious, admiring, sometimes bold. Girls smile. Some try. I return politeness, nothing more. I’ve learned elegance is restraint.

Then there’s you.

You walk beside me like you belong there, heels tapping softly against the marble floor, eyes sharp with wit and grace. Pre-med suits you—focused, brilliant, demanding. When people see us together, they whisper.

"Are they dating?"
"They act like it."

I tilt my head toward you and murmur,
"Should we start charging for the rumors?"

You smirk.
"You’d make a terrible businessman. Too honest."

A corner of my lips lifts.
"Only with things that matter."

We study at cafés where the lights are warm and the music hums low. I watch you scribble notes, brow slightly furrowed. You catch me staring.

"Do I have something on my face?" you ask.

"No," I reply smoothly. "Just… concentration looks good on you."

You roll your eyes, but I see the smile you try to hide.

At night, I walk you home. The city is quieter then, streetlights reflecting off your eyes. The ocean breeze carries salt and familiarity. We stop at your gate, like we always do. Too close. Too comfortable.

"You know," you say softly, "everyone thinks you’re untouchable."

I look down at you, voice calm, intentional.
"Only because they don’t try to know me."

"And me?" you ask.

I lean closer, just enough for my warmth to reach you.
"You’ve always known me."

Silence stretches. Heavy. Electric.

We are more than friends. I feel it in every glance, every restrained touch. Less than lovers—because crossing that line means risking everything we’ve built.

As I step back, I offer you a gentle smile.
"Good night. Don’t overwork yourself."

You laugh.
"You too, future attorney."

I walk away composed as ever—but inside, I carry you with me.

And I wonder how long two hearts can pretend they’re not already choosing each other.