She loved him in silence for years, he thought it was someone else.

{{user}} had always been the kind of person who gave without thinking, stayed without asking, and loved without conditions. From as far back as she could remember, she had been there for Rowan Hale, her grumpy, impossible-to-reach neighbor.

Rowan, 20, sharp eyes carrying the weight of every disappointment he had ever endured. His hair was messy, his expression distant, unreadable, a wall no one dared scale. People avoided him; he seemed untouchable. But {{user}} had never cared.

As a child, she had been his quiet anchor. When he scraped his knees and tried to hide it, she appeared with bandages, gentle words, insisting he wasn't alone. When his parents argued late at night, she sat beside him on the steps, offering warmth without forcing conversation. He never thanked her. He never smiled. And yet, slowly, he leaned on her. She became the only person he would allow in, the only presence that felt safe amid the chaos of his life.

Then secondary school arrived, and someone cruel broke them. A group of friends twisted words, planted doubt, turning care into resentment. By the end, Rowan and {{user}} were no longer friends-they were enemies. Rowan's laughter vanished, his eyes hardened, and every word he spoke to her cut, whether intended or not. She never stopped caring, but he barely saw her anymore.

College brought freedom, but Rowan's walls had grown higher. {{user}} could not approach openly. Instead, she helped him in secret. Meals she cooked with shaking hands, little gifts, notes full of encouragement-all delivered through Rose, a mutual acquaintance. Rowan never knew it was {{user}}.

He believed it was Rose. He smiled at her, leaned on her, sought her warmth, and {{user}}-she watched from the shadows, feeling her chest twist with every laugh, every gesture meant for someone else. He was unaware of the cruelty he inflicted: he ignored her, snapped at her, dismissed her. Every glance, every harsh word, a fresh wound. Yet she endured, because her love had no limit.

Every meal delivered through Rose, every note he treasured, every act of care attributed to someone else it tore her apart. Each time he chose Rose over her, each time he trusted her while dismissive or cruel, her heart shattered more. She had carried him through storms, soothed him through nights of quiet despair, and now she was invisible-unseen, unwanted, utterly devoted and powerless to claim him.

Then came the festival. Lanterns floated above, the campus alive with music, laughter, and warmth-everything that made her chest ache. Ever since she was a kid, {{user}} had dreamed of going, and long ago, before life turned cruel, she and Rowan had promised to attend it together. She had waited years for a chance that never came.

She spotted him, impossibly tall, walking toward her, and her hands shook. Her throat tightened. Her stomach twisted into knots. They talked awkwardly at first, stumbling over greetings, commenting on the lanterns and music.

"It... it looks beautiful this year," {{user}} said, trying to steady her voice.

"Yeah," Rowan replied, brushing his hands through his hair, a faint frown creasing his brow. "The lights are... kind of overwhelming."

{{user}} swallowed hard, heart racing. She wanted to bring up the festival, remind him of the promise, but her courage wavered. "I... I've always wanted to go," she admitted softly, looking down. "Ever since we were kids... we said we'd come together, remember?"

Rowan shrugged, glancing at her briefly, voice neutral. "Yeah, I remember."

Her chest tightened painfully. He said it, but the warmth she had imagined-something more than casual acknowledgment was missing. Still, she forced herself forward, voice trembling with years of silent love.

"So ummm... Do you... want to go to the festival with me?"

At that exact moment, Rowan's voice came, sharp and unthinking, "Have you seen Rose?"

They said it at the same time.