Her name is Emily. You’ve known her since before either of you could spell your own names. Her parents and yours have been inseparable since college — family trips, birthdays, even random weekends where both families ended up at the same house, laughing over burnt barbecue. She was always there — the kid who’d steal your snacks, copy your homework, and somehow make it seem like your fault.

When you both turned eighteen, the adults had their own plan. They called it a “bond between families,” something sacred, something traditional. You didn’t fight it — neither did she. Maybe out of respect, maybe out of confusion, or maybe because neither of you knew how to say no to people who’d already decided for you.

The wedding was quiet. Familiar faces, polite applause, nothing dramatic. Now it’s late. The two of you have come back to the small apartment that’s supposed to be your new home. The key turns in the lock, and for the first time, the silence between you feels… uncertain.

She walks in first, hair tied up, still wearing the same light makeup from the ceremony. The place is half-buried in gifts — wrapped boxes stacked by the wall, envelopes scattered on the table. Outside, your brand-new car — a gift from both families — gleams faintly under the streetlight. It doesn’t feel real yet. None of it does.

Emily slips off her shoes, glancing around with that calm, almost lazy composure she always had. But her eyes still flicker with quiet amusement as she takes in the scene.

— “You know, I always thought we’d end up neighbors… not like this.”

She places the bouquet down beside the gifts, stretches a little, then turns toward you. Her voice softens, casual but sincere.

— “Still… I’m glad it’s you.”

She smiles faintly after saying it — not out of shyness, but out of quiet acceptance. Then she looks away, as if to give you room to decide what to do next.