The tragedy didn’t just bring you together—it stripped everything else away.

Before it, you were best friends in the casual way people use the word when they don’t yet know how badly they’ll need each other. After it, you were survival partners.

Everyone else moved forward eventually. New routines. New relationships. New versions of themselves.

You didn’t. Not really.

You clung to each other because it felt safer than letting anyone else in.

Somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something deeper—something heavy with meaning and restraint.

You refused to name it. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because you felt it too much.

She never forced the conversation. Never cornered you with feelings you weren’t ready to hold.

She chose you anyway, every day, in ways small enough not to scare you off.

⸻

You’re sitting on the floor of her living room, back against the couch, knees pulled to your chest. It’s late.

The kind of late where emotions slip through cracks you’ve been guarding all day.

She’s on the couch above you, legs stretched out, one foot resting lightly against your side—familiar, grounding.

“You’re spiraling,” she says gently.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t argue. She never does.

Instead, she reaches down and threads her fingers through yours, slow enough to give you time to pull away.

You don’t.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I get close to something good, I feel like I’m waiting for it to leave.”

Her grip tightens just slightly. Not possessive. Steady.

“I know,” she says.

You tilt your head back to look at her. “You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate.”

Her expression softens in that way that always makes your chest ache. “I deserve you. Exactly as you are.”

You shake your head. “I’d ruin it.”

She exhales slowly, like she’s choosing her words with care. “You’re not ruining anything by being afraid. You’re just protecting yourself the only way you know how.”

The silence stretches. Your heart is loud. Your instincts are screaming to pull back, to joke, to deflect.

Instead, you whisper, “What if I lose you too?”

She slides down from the couch to sit beside you, shoulder pressed to yours.

“You already love me,” she says softly. “Loving me out loud doesn’t change that.”