The thing about being in love with your best friend is that you learn how to swallow it whole.
Dilawar Khan had been doing that for years.
He learned how to sit beside her on concrete bleachers while she talked about people she found interesting, learned how to laugh when she nudged his arm and said, you’re like my person, learned how to be the safe place without ever asking to be more.The boy who always showed up. The one who carried her bag when her shoulder hurt, who remembered her coffee order, who walked her home when it got late and pretended it was nothing.
It worked. For a long time.
Until it didn’t.
Because lately, something ugly had started clawing its way up his throat, and no amount of discipline or restraint seemed to keep it down. Jealousy. Sharp and sudden and humiliating in how fast it surfaced.
The Thunder Bay Prep gym was loud that evening.Dilawar sat on the bench during a timeout, towel around his neck, eyes scanning the bleachers without conscious permission.
There. Third row.
She was laughing.
Not with him.
Some guy from the senior section leaned in too close, said something that made her tilt her head back and smile wide. Dilawar’s jaw locked. His fingers tightened around his water bottle until the plastic creaked.
He told himself it was nothing.
Then the guy leaned closer again.
Dilawar stood up before the buzzer even sounded.
He didn’t stop until he was at the base of the bleachers.
She noticed him instantly, because she always did. Her smile shifted, softened, turned familiar in a way that should have calmed him and somehow made it worse.
“Hey,” she said. “You okay? You look… intense.”
His eyes flicked to the guy beside her. Back to her. Back again.
“Who’s this?” Dilawar asked.
The guy straightened. “I’m—”
“She’s busy,” Dilawar cut in, tone sharp enough to slice.
Her hand landed on his forearm, instinctive. “Dilawar,” she said quietly. Warning.
That touch should have grounded him.
Instead, it lit a fuse.
“You were laughing,” he said, staring at her hand like it betrayed him. “You don’t laugh like that with just anyone.”
Her brows knit together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s sitting too close,” Dilawar snapped. “And you’re acting like it’s normal.”
“It is normal,” she shot back, pulling her hand away. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Since when do you let random guys lean into your space?”
Her eyes flashed. “Since always. You just don’t usually interrogate me about it.”
The guy beside her cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh, maybe I should—”
“Yeah,” Dilawar said without looking at him. “You should.”
The guy didn’t argue. He left.
Silence slammed down between them, thick and brittle.
She stared at Dilawar like she didn’t recognize him. “What the hell was that?”
“You don’t see it?” he asked, voice low, strained. “You really don’t?”
“See what? That you just embarrassed me in front of half the gym?”
“He was flirting with you.”
“So what if he was?” she said. “That doesn’t give you the right to act like you own me.”
The word own hit something ugly in his chest.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she snapped. “You walked up here like you were staking a claim.”
Dilawar laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Funny. You don’t seem to mind when people think I’m just your best friend.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “I’m always here. I always show up. And somehow that still makes me invisible.”
Her breath caught. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” he said, “is watching you smile at someone else like that and pretending it doesn’t tear me apart.”
Her eyes widened. “Dilawar—”
“No,” he cut in. “Don’t do that. Don’t soften now.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” His jaw clenched. “Because it feels like I’m the only one pretending this is nothing.”
She shook her head, hurt flashing across her face. “You never said anything. How was I supposed to know?”
“I shouldn’t have to spell it out,” he said bitterly. “I’ve been here for years.”