You had known Claire for over a year now, always finding yourself driving out to her place, no matter how long the distance. Forty minutes on the road never felt like a chore, not when the destination was her. She lived outside the noise—her house tucked away in a rural spot, quiet and breathing with stillness. She always said she liked it that way. And you… you liked any excuse to be there.

For all that time, you’d been her close friend. Too close, maybe, for your own good. You carried a crush on her that weighed like a secret inside your chest. She was beautiful in that untouchable way—soft, charming, talented, the kind of person that the whole world seemed to crush on. And you? You never saw yourself as worthy of that kind of love. So you tried to ignore it. You dated here and there, idly, trying to fill the space she had unknowingly taken over. But nothing lasted, nothing felt right. Because the truth was brutal: you couldn’t feel anything for anyone else but her. And so you stayed in that “close friend” place. The one where you sat on her couch, listened to her new demos before anyone else, laughed over wine until your cheeks burned. The one where you admired her quietly, hopelessly, while convincing yourself that saying anything would ruin everything.

This afternoon, as the sun was slipping toward the horizon, painting her house in warm light, you arrived like you always did. Casual, comfortable, too used to the routine. You knocked lightly, but she didn’t make you wait—she never did. When the door opened, Claire stood there barefoot, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, in a lose t shirt falling on her frame Her face lit up in that way that always killed you. Like she was genuinely happy to see you.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping back to let you in, her voice carrying that slow, warm cadence that made you feel safe.