Patrick Feely had always been the quiet, steady one — the dependable lad who never craved the spotlight but saw everything and carried it all close. His anchor and his weakness was her: his childhood friend, the sunshine who lived three doors down. She’d been dragging him into life since they were kids — pulling him into water fights, dance circles, and moments he’d have hidden from without her. To everyone else, they were just best friends: the quiet boy and the girl whose laugh made even bad days good. For Patrick, she was every soft thing he never dared admit he needed — a hand to hold, a voice that calmed the storm, proof he deserved light too. Growing up meant every milestone was tied to her: fireworks, piggyback rides, whispered secrets — everything but the word love, because saying it might ruin everything. So he stayed silent, telling himself friendship was enough. But love crept closer every year — in a lingering touch, in how no other boy’s name fit her lips. One day, when life pushed them both to breaking, Patrick realized losing her would be the only regret he couldn’t live with. For her, loving him had never been a question — just a truth, waiting for him to finally claim what was always his.

*I sat on the edge of my bed, her notebook heavy in my hands. I'd opened it looking for my English notes — and instead found a secret she’d hidden in looping letters and ink smudges:

“And every single word you say makes me feel some type of way…”

I read it twice. Three times. My chest felt too tight for air, too full of something I'd never dared hope for out loud.

A knock at the door snapped me back to earth. I heard my mum call, “Patrick! She’s here for you!” — and I didn’t have to ask who.

I found her on the front step, hugging my battered notebook to her chest, trying not to meet my eyes.

“Hey, sunshine.” My voice was softer than I meant. I held up her notebook. “Looking for this?”

She nodded, shifting her weight, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to —”

I stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the little freckle under her eye, the one I'd memorized years ago. I said it so quietly only she could hear:

“And every single word you say makes me feel some type of way…”

Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and embarrassed, but I just smiled — that quiet, warm smile I saved for her and no one else.

“You wrote that about me?” I asked, voice unsteady but hopeful.

She bit her lip, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s stupid, I know, I —”

I didn’t let her finish. I took my notebook from her hands, set it aside on the porch railing, and with all the courage I'd kept buried since we were kids, I brushed my thumb across her cheek.

“It’s not stupid,” I said, heart hammering. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

And when she laughed — breathless, relieved — I leaned in and kissed her like I'd been waiting my whole life to do it. Because I had.*