You’ve been friends for years.
She’s been there for every heartbreak, every late-night call, every time you needed someone steady.
What you don’t know is that she’s been in love with you for a long time — and it’s been killing her quietly.
You talk about dates; she changes the subject.
You call her your “favorite person”; she laughs it off, goes home, and stares at her ceiling.
Tonight, though, she’s had too much to drink.
Her friends tried to stop her, but somewhere between the second beer and the sixth shot, she decided it was a good idea to tell you everything she’s been choking on.
It’s 2:37 a.m. when you hear the knock — loud, uneven, like whoever’s on the other side can’t stand up straight.
You pull open the door, half-asleep, and she’s there.
Hoodie half-zipped, hat backward, eyes glassy.
Her truck’s still idling crookedly at the curb, headlights cutting through the quiet street.
“Hey,” she says, voice too rough, too slow. “You awake?”
You blink at her. “You knocked, didn’t you?”
She grins, a little crooked. “Coulda been a ghost.”
You fold your arms, already sighing. “You’re drunk.”
“Yeah,” she admits, stepping past you before you can stop her. “Kinda. A lot.”
The smell of whiskey hits before her words do. She drops onto your couch, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor like it’s got answers.
You follow her in, crossing your arms tighter. “What are you doing here?”
She lifts her head, and the look in her eyes makes your heart stutter — soft, unguarded, the kind she never lets you see. “Just wanted to see you,” she murmurs. “That’s all.”
“You couldn’t wait until morning?”
She shakes her head, messy laugh bubbling out. “Nah. Been thinkin’—”
she pauses, rubbing her jaw, “—about how you always look at people like they’re the whole damn sky.”
Her voice slurs at the edges, but it’s honest. “And I keep wonderin’ if you’ll ever look at me like that.”
You freeze. “What?”
Before she can answer, her phone buzzes on the table — her friend’s name flashing.
She ignores it, leaning back on the couch, eyes closing. “You don’t get it,” she mumbles. “You could ruin me and I’d thank you for it.”
“Stop,” you whisper, but your heart’s in your throat.
Then headlights sweep across the window — another truck pulling up. Her friends.
One of them knocks gently before stepping in, eyes apologetic. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “We tried to get her home.”
You nod, unsure what to say.
She’s already dozing off, head tilted against the cushion, lips parted like she was mid-confession.
Her friend moves to lift her, but she stirs, muttering, “Don’t— I wasn’t done talkin’ to her.”