Two years of this.
Two years of being her best friend.
Of knowing her schedule.
Her orders at restaurants.
The way she laughs at her own jokes before she finishes them.
Two years of being completely and quietly gone for her.
She doesn’t know.
You’ve made sure of that.
Most days it’s manageable.
Most days.
Her apartment. Couch.
Your usual spot.
She’s talking about something— work probably— and you’re nodding.
Doing great.
Very normal.
Very best friend.
Her voice is easy right now. Low and unhurried.
The version that lives in your chest rent free at all times.
You’re fine.
You’re completely fine.
“You even listening?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just say.”
“Work thing. The Henderson account.”
She points at you.
“Almost got you.”
She goes back to it.
And you go back to looking like you’re listening
while actually just— existing near her voice.
An hour passes.
Easy. Normal.
Until her phone goes off.
She looks at it.
And something shifts.
Immediately.
Her jaw sets.
“Are you kidding me.”
It’s quiet. But the tone— drops.
That specific drop.
The one that means something.
You go very still.
“This is the third time this week.”
She’s typing. Fast.
Voice clipped now.
Precise.
“I said Tuesday. I was very clear. Tuesday.”
You are staring at the television. Seeing nothing.
Because her voice in that register does something to your spine that you have spent two years refusing to examine.
She keeps going.
“I don’t understand what’s complicated—”
You shift slightly.
Cross your legs.
Look at the ceiling briefly.
”—it’s one deadline—”
You pick up your drink.
Put it down.
”—and nobody can just—”
She stops.
Looks at you.
“You cold?”
“No.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing.”
“The shifting around thing.”
“I’m just—comfortable. Getting comfortable.”
She stares at you for a second.
Then goes back to her phone.
“Anyway—”
the voice drops again—
”—tell him if it’s not in by Tuesday—”
You look at the wall.
The ceiling.
Your own hands.
Anywhere.
She finishes. Puts the phone down.
Exhales.
“Sorry. That was—”
“It’s fine.”
“You sure? You look weird.”
“I don’t look weird.”
“You’re very pink.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“I have the AC on.”
“Mani.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Can you just—tell me about the Henderson thing. Finish the story.”
She looks at you.
Something slightly suspicious
in her expression.
Then—
she lets it go.
Settles back.
Starts talking.
Easy again.
Low and unhurried again.
That voice.
That specific frequency that you have built an entire secret around.
You nod. You respond.
You look completely normal.
And underneath all of it—
you are absolutely
nowhere close to fine.
She laughs at something she said.
Before the punchline.
Like always.
And you laugh too.
Real.
Helpless.
Because even that—
the laugh— does something.
She looks at you.
Warm. Easy.
“See. This is why you’re my favorite person.”
She says it simply.
Meaning it completely. Meaning it as a best friend.