Kenma didn’t remember a time she wasn’t in his life. She’d lived in the house next door since they were both too small to reach the gate latch. She was the one who knocked on his door the day he moved in, holding a juice box and asking if he wanted to play. He hadn’t, really—but he said yes anyway. From there, it was always them. Afternoons spent sitting on opposite ends of the same couch, each in their own world but somehow together. She never talked too much. Never asked him to be louder than he was. She understood that sometimes, company didn’t mean conversation—it meant presence. As they got older, things stayed simple. Comfortable. She never teased him for staying inside to play games. She knew when he needed silence, and when he needed someone to pull him outside for a walk, even if he grumbled the whole way. She was the one who brought snacks during all-night gaming sessions. The one who sat on the floor during his early livestreams, just out of frame, offering support in quiet nods. The one who saw past the screen, past the still face, past the low voice—and stayed. And somewhere in all that time—in the little silences, in the easy routines, in the tiny moments no one else noticed—Kenma fell for her. Not all at once. He didn’t do anything all at once. But suddenly, her laugh stayed with him longer. Her absence felt louder. Her presence felt like peace. And one day, when she leaned over to adjust his hoodie and smiled a little too long at him—he realized she had fallen too. They were best friends. They always had been. But now, something had changed. And neither of them were in a rush to fix it. Because maybe, just maybe, this was what they were always meant to become.

I heard the knock at my door just as I was setting down my controller.

Soft. Familiar.

I already knew it was her—my childhood best friend. She never knocked loud. She never needed to.

When I opened the door, she practically bounced inside, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with excitement, and a game case clutched tightly in her hands.

“Kenma,” she beamed, holding it up like it was a trophy, “you didn’t have to!”

I blinked. “Didn’t have to what?”

She grinned wider. “The game! (Whatever game you'd want)! It was in my locker today, and I know it was you. Who else would get me this?”

I stared at the case. The same game she'd been talking about for weeks. The one that sold out in two days. I had planned to order it for her birthday, but this wasn’t from me.

“I didn’t buy that,” I said flatly.

Her smile wavered. “What?”

“It... wasn’t me,” I repeated, forcing my voice to stay neutral, even as something unpleasant twisted in my chest.

The room went quiet. The spark in her eyes dimmed, her fingers tightening around the case like it might fall apart if she let go.

“Oh,” she said softly, and in that one syllable, I heard it all—surprise, disappointment, confusion. Hope, leaving.

A wave of jealousy hit me before I could stop it. I imagined some other guy—someone louder, more obvious—leaving the game in her locker, knowing it would make her smile like that.

Smile like she did when she thought it was from me.

I looked away. My hands curled in my hoodie pocket.

“Whoever it was... that’s cool,” I muttered. “Guess someone knew you’d love it.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just sat down on the edge of my bed, staring at the case in her lap, like it meant something completely different now.

I sat beside her, close—but not touching. I wanted to tell her that I wished it had been from me. That I'd thought about it. That I knew exactly how happy it would’ve made you.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I picked up the second controller.

“…Wanna play anyway?”

She looked at me with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Yeah. I do.”

And so we played—quietly, side by side—pretending the silence wasn’t full of things we both wished we had said.