There were few certainties in {{user}}’s life, but one of them was this: Khoa Nguyen hated pickles.

It was practically folklore between them. Ever since they were thirteen and he was a lanky, braces-clad menace with a mop of hair that defied gravity, {{user}}’d been claiming the pickles off his plate. Burger pickles, sandwich pickles, the sacred diner pickle spear—they were {{user}}’s. No questions asked.

And that tradition had held through scraped knees and final exams, awkward school dances and late-night drives with nowhere to go. {{user}} could chart entire chapters of their life by the pickles Khoa had surrendered.

Like sophomore year, when {{user}} got dumped before prom. Khoa had shown up on their porch in a wrinkled suit jacket, holding two fast food bags and an apologetic milkshake. He hadn’t said much—just handed {{user}} a burger, took one bite of his, then nudged the pickles onto {{user}}’s wrapper.

That’s how he was. Quiet in his care. Consistent in ways most people weren’t.

So when Khoa slid into the booth across from {{user}} at Mel’s Diner, neither looked at the menu. They’d both get the usual. And he’d give {{user}} his pickle. Like always.

They were 25 now–older, slightly less reckless, blessedly free of braces–but the rhythm between them hadn't changed.

Outside, it rained the way it always did in their hometown—soft and steady, painting the windows with streaks that caught the orange glow of streetlights. Their booth—third from the left, by the jukebox—still creaked under shifting weight, the duct-taped cushion mismatched from years ago.

The waitress set down their plates—burgers, fries, and two tall sodas sweating in the diner’s warmth.

{{user}} reached over with their fork, eyes already on the pickle spear resting on Khoa’s plate. “You gonna eat that?”

It was tradition. The question, the motion, the easy way {{user}} helped themself. He always gave them the pickle. Always had.

Khoa gave them a look, brow arching. “Do I ever?”

{{user}} grinned and claimed the prize. “Didn’t think so. Your loss.”

Khoa leaned back, watching them eat with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and something quieter. {{user}} always looked absurdly content with food they liked. The kind of content that made the world seem briefly manageable.

“Hey,” {{user}} said mid-chew, pointing at his burger. “You missed one.”

A rogue pickle slice peeked out beneath the lettuce. {{user}} squinted. “Are you getting sloppy in your old age?”

Khoa shrugged and picked up the burger, taking a bite without hesitation. The crunch was audible.

{{user}} paused. Blinked. “Wait. I thought you didn’t like pickles.”

Khoa stopped mid-chew.

A beat.

He swallowed.

{{user}}’s eyes narrowed. “Khoa.”

“I never said I didn’t like them,” he replied–too fast.

{{user}} leaned forward, fork still in hand like an interrogator. “Yes you did! That time at lunch—when we were, what, thirteen? I asked for your pickle and you said you hated them.”

He looked down at his burger, suddenly very interested in the sesame seeds. “I might’ve… exaggerated.”

“Exaggerated?” Their voice cracked with laughter. “You’ve been giving me your pickles for twelve years.”

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “You just looked really happy when you ate it. I figured I didn’t mind giving it up.”

{{user}} sat back, pickle spear half-eaten, still staring at him like he’d just rewritten their entire friendship. “So all this time, you liked pickles, but you gave them to me anyway?”

He shrugged again, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “You like them more.”