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 tugged my hoodie sleeves over my hands as I walked toward the small neighborhood convenience store near my house. The winter air bit at my fingers, and my phone buzzed with a new game notification I didn’t open.

My mind was elsewhere.

She’d been weird all day.

My best friend—my neighbor since we were five. The girl who used to sit on my porch with juice boxes and watch me play handheld games for hours. The one who still waited for me after school even when I pretended not to notice.

And today, she hadn’t come to find me.

Not once.

I caught sight of her before I even reached the shop.

She was standing just outside the entrance, her scarf loose around her neck, cheeks flushed pink from the cold—and laughter.

Because of the guy standing next to her.

Someone from her class, I thought. Loud. Confident. He leaned closer as he joked with her, and she laughed into her gloved hand.

And in her other hand, clutched close to her chest, was a small box of chocolates.

Wrapped in warm yellow paper, tied with a red ribbon.

I stopped walking.

The cold felt sharper suddenly.

I didn’t want to assume they were for that guy. But the way she kept holding them while laughing like that—like she was waiting for the right moment—it twisted something in my chest.

I looked down at my shoes.

I didn’t know when this had started, this feeling. This quiet, desperate hope that maybe she’d look at me the way I looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

But right now, it felt stupid.

Just as I was about to turn around and head home, I heard her call out.

“Kenma?”

I glanced up.

Her smile softened. “You were just gonna walk by?”

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

The guy beside her looked between them, clearly picking up on something, then gave her a casual wave before heading off.

She didn’t stop him. She just looked back at me.

“I was actually looking for you earlier,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. The box shifted in her grip.

I didn’t ask.

Didn’t want to hear it.

“Forget it,” I muttered, starting toward the store door.

Behind me, she hesitated—but didn’t follow.

And neither of us said what we really meant.