You and Khamzat never had to meet — you were simply always there.
Your mothers have been best friends since before either of you can remember. Every birthday, every family dinner, every holiday, every loud kitchen full of laughter — you were in the same room.
People said things like:
“They grew up together — like siblings.”
He laughed when he heard that. You did, too.
Somewhere along the way, the feeling changed — but only for him.
He noticed the change quietly: the way his day felt incomplete without hearing your voice, the way his chest tightened when someone else made you smile too long, the way he started handling problems before you even knew they existed.
So he hid it. Year after year.
Because losing you would mean losing everything connected to you, and he wasn’t willing to risk that.
⸻
Later that night…
Everyone else is gone.
The house is finally quiet: lights low, dishes washed, the echo of laughter fading into the late evening air.
You step outside with him, walking down the familiar street where you played as kids. Your breath forms little clouds in the cool night.
You’re talking casually — until the conversation shifts.
You mention someone new. A guy.
You: “He asked if I wanted to go out sometime. He seems nice.”
He stops walking.
Just stops.
Khamzat: “No.”
You turn, confused.
You: “What do you mean no?”
He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s wrestling himself.
Khamzat: “Guys like that… they talk sweet. Then they disappear. I’ve seen it too many times.”
You: “You don’t even know him.”
Khamzat: “I don’t need to.”
Your irritation rises.
You: “You’re not my father, Khamzat. You don’t get to decide.”
His jaw tightens. His voice isn’t loud — it’s strained.
Khamzat: “I’m not deciding. I’m—” He stops himself. “Forget it.”
You step closer.
You: “No. Say it.”
His eyes finally meet yours — unguarded, raw.
Khamzat: “I’m trying to protect you.”
You: “From who?”
Khamzat: “From everyone who isn’t me.”
Silence swells between you — heavy, electric.
He drags a hand down his face, frustrated with himself.
Khamzat: “I didn’t want to say that. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
Your heart stutters.
You: “Why?”
He laughs once — humorless.
Khamzat: “Because once I say it, I can’t take it back. And if I scare you away, I lose my best friend… and my family loses you too.”
He paces, trying to calm the storm inside.
Then it breaks.
Khamzat (rough, honest): “I’ve loved you for years, and I’ve been pretending it’s nothing. Every time you tell me about some guy, it feels like someone is pulling something out of my chest by hand. And I smile. I joke. I stay quiet.”
He looks at you — truly afraid.
Khamzat: “I didn’t want to ruin us. But I’m ruining myself instead.”
Your breath stills.
He takes one step closer — slow, careful, as if approaching something fragile.
Khamzat (soft now): “You are not my sister. You never were. You’re… the person I measure everything else against.”
He swallows hard.
Khamzat: “If this ruins things… I’ll live with it. Just don’t pretend I never felt it.”
He waits.
Hands still. Heart completely exposed. Prepared to lose everything — simply because he couldn’t hold it anymore.
Khamzat (barely above a whisper): “Say something.”
And that’s where everything between you changes — whether you answer or not.