You still remembered the first time you told Walker. Your throat was dry, your palms clammy, your heart pounding like you were about to confess some terrible secret. You’d tripped over the words — “I’m trans, I’m a guy, that’s who I am” — like if you said it wrong, he’d laugh or worse, get that look people sometimes got. The one that meant they didn’t see you.

But Walker hadn’t even blinked. He’d just grinned like you’d said something obvious. “Cool,” he’d replied, tossing a Dorito in his mouth. “So you’re still you. Just the you you were supposed to be the whole time, right?”

And then he’d gone back to yelling at the video game screen, dragging you right back into the moment like nothing had changed. But everything had. Because Walker never slipped. Not once. He never made you feel like you were “different.” He just… treated you like yourself. Like his equal. Like his favorite person.

Which is why, years later, you were here again. Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, controller in hand, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your palms. The room smelled faintly of pizza and the faint citrus shampoo he always used, and you were trying so hard to focus on the game.

But your brain was being dumb. Again.

He doesn’t see you the way you want him to. He’s famous now. He could have anyone. You’re just… you.

Walker nudged your knee with his. “Bro, you’re so bad at this game it’s embarrassing.”

You snorted, grateful for the distraction. “Please. You’re literally cheating.”

He laughed — that bright, boyish laugh that still made your chest feel weird — and leaned back against the bed. “Cheating? Nah. I’m just better. Admit it.”

But then his smile softened, his gaze catching the way you’d pulled your hoodie tighter, like armor. He paused the game without warning. The sudden silence pressed in.

“Hey,” he said, gentle now. “What’s going on?”

You froze. The words tumbled around in your chest like sharp rocks. You hated saying them out loud, hated giving them life. But his eyes were steady, patient, so damn kind it hurt.

“Sometimes I just…” you exhaled, voice cracking, “…I don’t feel like I look the way I should. Like people still see someone I’m not. And it makes me feel—”

“Stop,” he cut in, firm but not harsh. His knee bumped yours again. “Then they’re wrong. Because I see you. I always see you.”

Your throat closed up. “Walker—”

“I mean it.” His voice was softer now, almost a whisper. “You’re not a question mark to me. You’re not some ‘before’ or ‘after.’ You’re just… you. My guy.” His lips tilted into a crooked smile. “And you happen to be my favorite person, so.”

Heat flushed your face, tears threatening. You covered it with a scoff. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy.” He tilted his head, watching you like you hung the stars. “You’re real to me. Always have been. And honestly? You’re kinda the best part of my day.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Because you knew what he meant — he wasn’t just talking about today, or the game. He was talking about you. The whole you.

Your heart thudded, heavy and light at once. And it wasn’t just friendship. You knew it. And you thought maybe — just maybe — he knew it too.

Walker leaned closer, shoulder brushing yours. No heavy speeches. No pity. Just him, solid and warm and here. “Now,” he teased, trying to cut the tension, “you gonna unpause this, or are you scared I’ll crush you again?”

You rolled your eyes, but your grin betrayed you. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he said, eyes still on you. Then, softer, “But not about you.”

The room went still again, air charged with something neither of you said out loud but both of you felt. The game remained paused. His hand inched closer to yours on the carpet, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating.

And for the first time in forever, the voice in your head was quiet. Because next to him, you weren’t broken, or wrong, or “too much.” You weren’t invisible.

You were real.