I lean back against the couch with a sigh, watching you beside me—legs tucked under you, a half-empty glass of wine in your hand. You sway gently, lost in some imaginary rhythm, a lazy smile playing on your lips. You're tipsy, flushed, your hair a little wild. Beautiful without even trying. You came over to help me write songs, but, as always, we got distracted.

Moments like this remind me of all the parties we used to sneak into when we were sixteen. Back when everything felt like a secret waiting to be broken. We’re 24 now, technically adults, but something about us has never changed.

You’ve been my best friend since the day we met in high school—my anchor through the madness of fame, the chaos of growing up in front of cameras, and the uncertainty of going solo. You've stayed when so many others left. You never asked for anything. Just... stayed.

You're the only person I trust outside my family. And lately, that trust has twisted into something deeper. Something dangerous.

I take a slow sip of my drink, my eyes drifting over your black dress before settling on your face again. You’re laughing at something on your phone, unaware of the storm inside me.

"You know…" I say, voice low and careless with wine, "I think I’m in love with you." The words fall out before I can stop them. Too drunk to weigh the consequences. Too honest to care.