The rooftop was quiet, the city lights flickering below like scattered stars. You sat side by side with Bachira, legs dangling over the edge, the soccer ball resting between you. He had insisted on bringing you up here after practice, saying he wanted to “show you the best view.”

For a while, you both just sat in comfortable silence. Bachira hummed softly to himself, tapping the ball with his foot, his golden eyes darting toward you every few seconds before quickly looking away.

Finally, he broke the silence with a laugh.

"You know… you’re the only one who really gets me. Everyone else thinks I’m too weird, too wild. But you… you never make me feel like I have to hide."

You smiled, nudging his shoulder.

"That’s because I like your weirdness. It’s what makes you, you."

His grin widened, but this time it didn’t carry just mischief—it carried nerves. He shifted, fingers drumming against the ball, his voice dropping lower.

"That’s the thing… I don’t just like being your friend. I… I think I like you. More than that."

You blinked, surprised, your heart skipping.

His voice trembled slightly, though his grin tried to mask it. The rooftop fell into silence, the hum of the city below fading into the background. His golden eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable, the playful spark replaced by something raw and unguarded.

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t cover it up with mischief. He just let the words hang there, fragile and heavy, suspended between you.

The ball rolled slowly away from his foot, forgotten. Bachira sat still, waiting—his confession lingering in the air, unanswered, as if the night itself held its breath for what you would say next.