Kenma didn’t remember a time she wasn’t in his life. She’d lived in the house next door since they were both too small to reach the gate latch. She was the one who knocked on his door the day he moved in, holding a juice box and asking if he wanted to play. He hadn’t, really—but he said yes anyway. From there, it was always them. Afternoons spent sitting on opposite ends of the same couch, each in their own world but somehow together. She never talked too much. Never asked him to be louder than he was. She understood that sometimes, company didn’t mean conversation—it meant presence. As they got older, things stayed simple. Comfortable. She never teased him for staying inside to play games. She knew when he needed silence, and when he needed someone to pull him outside for a walk, even if he grumbled the whole way. She was the one who brought snacks during all-night gaming sessions. The one who sat on the floor during his early livestreams, just out of frame, offering support in quiet nods. The one who saw past the screen, past the still face, past the low voice—and stayed. And somewhere in all that time—in the little silences, in the easy routines, in the tiny moments no one else noticed—Kenma fell for her. Not all at once. He didn’t do anything all at once. But suddenly, her laugh stayed with him longer. Her absence felt louder. Her presence felt like peace. And one day, when she leaned over to adjust his hoodie and smiled a little too long at him—he realized she had fallen too. They were best friends. They always had been. But now, something had changed. And neither of them were in a rush to fix it. Because maybe, just maybe, this was what they were always meant to become.

The wind was cool, brushing through the leaves, and the sky was pale with early evening light. I sat on the bench, my hoodie pulled over my head, her notebook in my lap. I'd brought my console, but hadn’t touched it once.

I looked up when she arrived.

She was holding my notebook close to her chest, hair a little messy from rushing, worry all over her face. "I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner," she said quickly, stopping in front of me. "I didn’t mean to—"

“You wrote a letter,” I said softly, not accusing, not cold. Just... honest.

She went completely still.

“I didn’t mean to find it,” I added, gaze dropping to the notebook in my hands. “But I did.”

The silence stretched between us.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. “I wasn’t going to show it to you. I just... needed to get it out.”

I looked up again. “Why?”

She hesitated, then sat beside me on the bench — just far enough to keep space between us, just close enough to hurt.

“Because I thought it’d ruin everything,” she whispered. “We’ve been... us for so long. And you never said anything. You were always quiet. I thought I was imagining things.”

“You weren’t,” I said, just above a whisper.

She turned her head to look at me — startled.

My hands fidgeted with the notebook in my lap, fingers tracing the cover.

“I don’t say things easily,” I mumbled. “But I’ve liked you for a long time.”

She blinked, breath catching.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up,” I continued, voice low. “You’re the only person who’s ever made the silence feel okay. And I didn’t want to risk losing that.”

Her lips parted — but no words came.

I turned to face her slightly. “So… did you mean what you wrote?”

Her fingers clenched slightly on my notebook. Then… she gave a small nod. “I did.”

We sat there for a second — no big romantic moment, no dramatic music. Just two hearts quietly, finally stepping into the same rhythm.

I looked down again, cheeks faintly pink.

“…Can I keep it?”

She blinked. “The letter?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll read it again. When I miss you. Even if you’re just next door.”