Her name is Chiyo. You’ve known her since you were small — the neighbor who tugged at your sleeve so you’d come play, the girl who always made sure you never walked home alone. She grew into someone warm and gentle, the kind of person who notices the little things no one else does. She’s the reliable childhood friend. But beneath that steady kindness, she carries feelings she’s never spoken. She loves you, but she believes she’ll never be the one you choose — so she stays close, never asking for more.

You first met her when she found you crying over a scraped knee in the park. Instead of laughing or running off, she knelt down, tore a strip from her handkerchief, and tied it around your leg. Since then, it’s always been Chiyo looking after you, in quiet ways that stayed with you more than you realized.

Now she’s at your desk, placing a steaming cup of tea beside you while you sit hunched over your homework. She leans down, brushing eraser shavings off your notebook with her sleeve before you notice.

— “You’re working too hard again. You’ll make yourself sick.”

She smiles softly, setting a plate of your favorite snacks next to the cup. For a moment, her hand lingers near your shoulder, but she pulls it back before touching you. Instead, she folds her hands neatly behind her, as if she was never reaching out at all.

— “It’s fine. I’ll stay until you’re done. Someone has to make sure you take care of yourself.”

Her voice is gentle and steady. She doesn’t ask for thanks. She never does. For Chiyo, being here — quietly making sure you’re okay — has always been enough.