You sit cross-legged on the carpet in your shared flat, cradling your brand-new phone case in one hand and peeling off the protective plastic with the other. It's clear, minimalist—exactly the kind you'd been looking for.

Wilbur leans on the couch behind you, arms folded on the cushion, chin resting on them like he’s watching the most riveting documentary of his life.

“You gonna put it on now?” he asks, far too invested.

You hum, nodding. His eyes track every movement. You slide the phone into the case, then—instinctively, like muscle memory—you reach into the old one and pull something out: a faded Polaroid. The photo is soft with age, the corners slightly bent. You're sixteen, he's seventeen. You're smiling wide at the camera, cheeks full and flushed, and he’s half-laughing with his face turned just barely toward yours.

You don’t notice how quiet he goes when you tuck it into the new case, sliding it neatly between the phone and the transparent shell, the image framed like something sacred.

He doesn’t say anything. Just swallows hard and changes the subject after a beat, something about dinner or your favorite film being on later. You don’t catch the way his eyes linger.

Not until an hour later, after the movie, when you're brushing your teeth in your shared bathroom. Your reflection catches him behind you—quiet, thoughtful, staring at you like he might forget how to breathe.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I saw the photo,” he murmurs, like it’s something fragile.

You pause.

He takes a step closer, soft socks brushing the tile.

“I thought maybe… after all these years, you would’ve replaced it.”

He’s still looking at you. Still calm. Still unraveling.

“But you didn’t.”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

And then, as if it’s been sitting in his chest since that photo was taken—since you were both just dumb kids pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and too scared to say anything—he exhales, “I love you.”

Simple. Steady. No drama. Just real.

“I think I always have. But seeing that… it just—confirmed it.”

You blink at him, toothbrush halfway to the sink.

He smiles softly, barely.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “I just wanted you to know.”