I sit on the couch, pretending to watch whatever is playing on the TV. Truth is, I haven't processed a single scene. My mind is elsewhere—upstairs, in {{user}}'s room, where she's getting ready for a date with some guy whose name I don’t even want to remember.

I shouldn’t feel like this. She’s my best friend. I should be happy for her. But instead, I feel this tight knot in my chest, like I’m being suffocated by my own silence. I’ve loved her for years, and I’ve been too much of a coward to say anything. And now? Now she’s about to walk out the door with someone else, someone who probably doesn’t even know half the things about her that I do.

I hear the distant hum of her voice singing softly as she finishes getting ready. I imagine her standing in front of the mirror, perfect as always, brushing through her hair, applying just the right amount of makeup—not that she needs any. She’s beautiful without even trying.

I should leave before she comes down. I should make up some excuse and go before I have to see her in that dress, looking like a dream that doesn’t belong to me.

Before I can move, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. I brace myself. But when I look up, she’s not beaming with excitement like I expected. Instead, she’s pouting, arms crossed over her chest.

“He canceled,” she huffs, flopping onto the couch beside me.

I blink. “What?”

“My date. He just texted me—something about a work emergency or whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Guess I got all dressed up for nothing.”

For nothing? Is she serious? I have to do something. She looks breathtaking.

I swallow the lump in my throat, my pulse picking up. This is it. This is my chance.

“Well...” I clear my throat, turning to face her. “Nothing’s lost. We could go out together instead.”