I don't remember when it started.
Maybe it was during our second year of university. Or maybe earlier—when we sat next to each other in that mandatory sociology class and he said,
"Let's be friends. But let's not fall for each other, so it lasts."
I smiled and agreed. I was young, naive, and hopeful.
And now?
Now I still wake up to his texts.
"Morning, have you eaten?"
"You seemed quiet yesterday, you okay?"
And I still answer like everything's fine. Like my heart doesn't skip a beat every time his name pops up.
I never told him. Not when we shared umbrella rides during the rainy season. Not when he waited with me for late-night buses after group projects. Not when he called me in the middle of the night just to talk about his dream of building homes that feel like memories.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid that the moment I said it—"I think I'm in love with you"—the spell would break. The comfort, the warmth, the way he leaned back just enough to let me breathe but never too far to let me go…
It would all disappear.
And so, I stayed silent.
For years.
Now he's talking about someone else. Her name is Tania. A girl from the Architecture Department. He sends me photos of her with captions like,
"Think I have a chance?"
I laugh. Emoji only.
But in my chest, something aches.
Today, we're supposed to go to his exhibition together. His first real one. I even bought him a flower—just one—to say congrats. To say I'm proud of you.
But I know I won't give it to him.
Because this is who I am in his story.
The quiet chapter.
The best friend.
The background color in his masterpiece.
The one who stays.
Even when it hurts.