You’ve known Tom for so long that it’s hard to remember a version of your life where he wasn’t in it. He was always there — at family barbecues, birthdays, last-minute dinners where your brother dragged him along without asking. Growing up, he felt less like a family friend and more like a constant, someone woven quietly into the background of your life. When you were older, the line between friend and something else blurred naturally. Dating him didn’t feel like a dramatic shift so much as an inevitable step — as if you’d simply named what had already been there. And when it ended, it didn’t explode or burn bridges. It just… softened. You stayed close, stayed kind to each other. Maybe too kind. Maybe because neither of you ever quite learned how to stop caring.

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As the party winds down, people begin to leave in loose clusters. Without really discussing it, Tom reaches for his coat and nods towards the door.

“i’ll walk you home” he says, like it’s a given. maybe it is.

The walk home was calming and quiet, every so often, he glances at you, not openly, but enough that you feel it anyway.

Once arriving at your family home, you slow down and stop outside the front door.

“you alright?” he asks, looking down at you with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.