It started simple.

You, Islam, and Khabib — just three friends.

Training together, traveling to fights together, laughing over late-night food when the world outside didn’t matter.

You were always closer to Khabib. Not because Islam wasn’t there — but because Islam never tried to be.

He stayed in the background. Quiet. Watching.

And you — you assumed he just didn’t like you much.

The truth? He liked you too much.

He fought it for years. That’s the part no one ever saw.

He noticed everything — the way you laughed at Khabib’s jokes, the way you’d look at Khabib when you thought no one was paying attention.

Not once did you look at Islam like that.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He buried it. He stayed loyal to the both of you. He thought he could survive with silence.

Until the night it broke him.

Islam had just won a fight. You and Khabib celebrated him like always — proud, supportive, radiant with adrenaline and joy.

He told you both he wanted to go out and celebrate — just the three of you, the way it used to be.

A small bar. Music low. Lights warm. Memories everywhere.

You were glowing. Khabib was relaxed for once. Islam couldn’t breathe.

You went to the bathroom, still talking and still smiling. You didn’t notice Islam watching you leave. You never noticed that part.

But Khabib did.

“What?” he said casually, no suspicion — just brotherly understanding.

Islam stayed silent.

Khabib shrugged, reached for his drink — and that was the moment Islam shattered.

He grabbed Khabib’s wrist. Hard.

No words.

Khabib stared at him, confused, then angry.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded in Russian.

Islam’s voice cracked — just once.

“You don’t see it,” he said.

Khabib blinked. “See what?”

Islam pushed him. Shoved him. Something ugly and desperate came loose after years of holding it down.

“Her.”

Silence. Real silence. The kind that changes friendships.

Khabib froze.

“What about her?”

Islam laughed — a broken, bitter sound.

“Everything.”

That’s when you came back.

They were on their feet, tense, breathless, eyes burning from everything they couldn’t say.

“What happened?” you asked, caught in the middle.

Islam didn’t look at you. He couldn’t.

Khabib’s eyes shifted between you and him — and that’s when he understood.

It wasn’t your fault.

It wasn’t Khabib’s fault.

It was the weight of what Islam never said —

until it was already too late.