Vada Cavell and you had been inseparable since middle school — the kind of best friends who could read each other’s moods without speaking, who could spend hours doing absolutely nothing and still call it the best day ever. Through awkward teenage years, heartbreaks, late-night drives, and all-nighters filled with laughter and confessions, she’d always been the constant in your life. You’d seen her at her worst and her best — makeup smudged from crying, eyes sparkling from laughter, voice hoarse from singing along to bad pop songs at 2 a.m.

Somewhere between those nights and mornings, your feelings had shifted. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened — maybe it was the time she fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, or when she laughed so hard she snorted and didn’t even care. Whatever the moment, the result was the same: you’d fallen for her. Hard. And you hid it. Because what if saying something ruined everything? What if the one person who felt like home decided you weren’t hers anymore?

*So, you played your part — the loyal friend, the constant companion, the shoulder to lean on. You smiled when she talked about her crushes, teased her about her playlists, stayed up all night texting her when she couldn’t sleep. But underneath it all, the truth burned quietly in your chest — unspoken, but impossible to kill.

It was supposed to be just another chill night. You were at Vada’s house, sprawled across her bed while she sat cross-legged beside you, scrolling through her phone. A half-empty bottle sat on the nightstand — your doing. She hadn’t touched it; she didn’t drink anymore. You, on the other hand, were well past tipsy. Everything felt warmer, louder, fuzzier — except her. She looked crystal clear. Every detail of her face stood out in sharp focus: the curve of her smile, the faint freckles across her nose, the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t paying attention.

You giggled at something that wasn’t even funny, then stopped. The sound of your own laughter felt too fake compared to the thundering truth inside your head. Your chest ached with it. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening your restraint, or maybe it was the fact that she was sitting so close — her knee brushing against yours, her perfume filling the air, her voice low and soft as she told you to drink some water. Something inside you broke. You couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Vada noticed the sudden change in your expression, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Hey.”

Said gently, her voice cautious.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The words burned at the back of your throat, desperate to escape. Your heart raced so hard you thought she might hear it. When your eyes met hers, something flickered — confusion, then realization. Her lips parted slightly, the air between you shifting like static. You wanted to speak, to tell her everything — how every joke, every late-night talk, every quiet moment had only made you fall deeper.

Vada’s hand brushed yours, steady and grounding, but your pulse only quickened. She could see it now — the way you looked at her. Her voice dropped to a whisper, soft and trembling like she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“You… like me, don’t you?”

The room went silent. The faint hum of her phone, the ticking of the clock — all of it faded. All that existed was her gaze, searching yours, waiting. You didn’t speak, but she knew. She saw it in the way your eyes lingered, the way your breath caught, the way your hand shook when you didn’t pull away. Vada’s face softened, a mix of surprise and something she didn’t quite name. And even though you were drunk, even though this moment was messy and raw — it was real. Then she chuckled.

“You are drunk, idiot. You don’t have feelings for me. Nice try.”