Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bonnie's heart was racing when she opened the door of her apartment. She could hear the sound of her own breathing. She could see the half-empty coffee cup on the counter—coffee from yesterday, when she was reviewing scripts for her next work.

She just got back home from an interview with her best friend, Emi. They were working on a project together: Emi's music video, and Bonnie was starring in it.

No.

It feels weird, having a single syllable hurt that much.

How does one syllable feel like she's been tried for lifetime imprisonment?

When someone asks her about confessing to someone she likes, normally, she'd say things like I'd let them confess first or I don't like anyone anyway. But why is it that when she's with Emi, all she can say is no?

She sat down on her couch and stared blankly at the television. She said no so easily that it felt like a lie. 

But Emi said it too. She said it at the same exact time. That means something, right? That means they're on the same page. That means—Bonnie stopped before she could spiral further.

She's been spiraling for years. She's been confused for years.

She sighed and took out her phone. She stared at it. Her screensaver was a picture of her and Emi from when they were teenagers. Before everything else. Before she became an actress, and before Emi became a musician. Hell, it was before she had these feelings she wasn't sure she could bottle up anymore.

She knew she shouldn't feel this way, but she felt a small, stupid disappointment when she realized Emi hadn't texted her. Not a single word.

But then again, she hadn't texted Emi either.

So what right did she have to be disappointed? What right did she have to expect something she wasn't brave enough to give herself?

She remembered the first time she met Emi. They were ten, and she was sitting alone inside the school music room during their free period. It wasn't like she wanted to be alone—she was just new, and shy, and didn't know how to be the first one to speak.

She was staring out the window, watching her classmates play tag, hide and seek, or whatever stupid thing kids do when they have free time, when the door suddenly swung open. A girl, exactly her height, walked in with a grin so wide it looked like it might split her face.

"HEY! YOU'RE THE NEW STUDENT, RIGHT?" The girl yelled. Actually yelled. Bonnie's forehead creased. Why would she scream? The room was quiet. Bonnie was quiet. The girl could talk in a whisper and Bonnie would still hear her just fine.

"Oh sorry, I think my voice is too loud, no?" The girl said, giggling to herself like she'd just told a private joke. She dropped her bag next to Bonnie's and sat down on the chair beside the new student like she'd belonged there her whole life. 

"I'm Emi. What's your name?" The girl said, already extending a hand. Bonnie looked at her, then at her hand, then scrunched her nose. She knew Emi—not like they were close, but Emi was always the loud one in the back of the class. Always getting scolded by the teachers. Always laughing about it five seconds later.

Bonnie hesitated. Then she took Emi's hand.

"I'm Bonnie," she said shyly.

If Bonnie could choose a friend, it wouldn't be Emi.

She was the opposite of Emi. If Emi was loud, Bonnie was quiet. If they were to be friends, wouldn't she get irritated? With Emi's voice, with Emi's energy, with the way Emi took up space like she was born to do it?

But Emi was already there. Emi had sat beside her when she could have been outside with the other kids. So maybe having Emi beside her was fine. She was ten. She couldn't really choose her friends anyway.

"Why are you here? Why don't you run with them? Or play hide and seek? Are you shy? Do you want to be my friend?" Emi asked in one breath, like she was running out of time to say all the words in her head.

Bonnie stared at her before chuckling softly.

"You're loud," Bonnie said.

Emi smiled softly. Not the huge, room-filling grin from before. Something smaller. Something real.

"I made you laugh!" Emi said, pointing at Bonnie's face like she'd just won a prize.

Bonnie wanted to deny it. But she had laughed. Just a little. Just a soft sound that escaped before she could stop it.

"Don't get used to it," Bonnie mumbled.

"Too late," Emi said, already getting comfortable in her chair. "I'm already used to it. We're friends now."

"We are not—"

"We are," Emi interrupted.

Emi took out a pair of tangled earphones from her pocket and an iPod.

"Do you like music, Bonnie?" Emi asked as she wrestled with the knots.

Bonnie looked at her and shrugged. "I listen to it sometimes," she said, her voice small.

"Okay good. Because you look like you need music." Emi held out one earbud. "What do you like?"

"Uh, the usual pop songs I hear on the radio these days." Bonnie hesitated, then reluctantly took the earbud.

"Oh, really?" Emi's eyes lit up like Bonnie had just said something brilliant. "Then you should take a listen to this song." She pressed play on her iPod with the confidence of a DJ introducing a masterpiece.

A slow, wistful melody began to play. Something aching. Something that felt too big for a music room and too heavy for two ten-year-olds.

Bonnie's forehead creased. "What's this song called?"

"It's JANNABI's 'for lovers who hesitate,'" Emi said proudly, like she'd just revealed a secret.

Bonnie blinked. "Aren't you too young for this? I mean, personally, I would listen to cartoon theme songs or whatever."

Emi gasped, offended in a way that was almost theatrical. "Hey, music has no age!"

Bonnie looked at her. Really looked. At the way Emi's nose scrunched when she was being defensive. At the way she held the iPod like it was something sacred.

"Okay," Bonnie said quietly. "Play it again."

Emi's whole face softened. She pressed replay without saying a word.

They sat there, two girls connected by a tangled wire, listening to a song about love they were too young to understand.

But Bonnie never forgot that song. Not ever.

In fact, she listened to it daily. In her earbuds during commutes. On speaker while washing dishes. On repeat during sleepless nights when her chest felt too tight and she couldn't figure out why.

She listened to it remembering how Emi had sat beside her in that cold music room, offering her a friendship she didn't anticipate would become so complicated so fast.

At ten, Bonnie thought the song was just pretty. Sad, but pretty.

At fifteen, she started to feel it in her ribs

At twenty, she understood every single word.

Now, at twenty-four, she couldn't listen to it without crying. So she listened to it more. Like pressing on a bruise to make sure it still hurt. Like making sure she was still alive.

She never told Emi that. That the song Emi played for her on their first day had become a secret ritual. A prayer. A confession she never had the courage to say out loud.

For lovers who hesitate.

How fitting, Bonnie thought bitterly. How painfully, stupidly fitting.

At sixteen, Bonnie didn't know that a failed audition could hurt this much.

They were sixteen, stupid and reckless and full of dreams. Dreams that felt close enough to touch, close enough to choke on. And tonight, those dreams had slapped her in the face and told her she wasn't good enough.

They were sitting inside Emi's beat-up car—the one her father had gifted her for her sixteenth birthday, a rusty thing with a busted speaker and a smell of old coffee. It was parked somewhere along a ridge, overlooking the busy city. The lights below blurred and sparkled, indifferent to Bonnie's heartbreak.

Bonnie was crying. Of course she was. It was her first audition, and she had failed horribly. The casting director had looked at her like she was wasting their time. The other girls had been prettier, more confident, better. Bonnie had frozen mid-scene. Forgot her lines. Stood there like a deer in headlights while the room waited.

She could still feel the heat of humiliation crawling up her neck.

Why would she think she could do it? She was shy. She never took acting lessons. She was just Bonnie. Plain, quiet Bonnie who couldn't even look a casting director in the eye without freezing.

The other girls had presence. They walked into that room like they owned it, like they were born to be looked at. Bonnie had walked in like she didn’t know she was doing an audition. 

"I'm never going to make it," Bonnie choked out, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I'm not good enough. I'm never going to be good enough."

Emi didn't say anything at first. She just reached over and put her hand on top of Bonnie's on the gearshift. Her fingers were warm. Calloused from guitar strings. Steady in a way Bonnie's whole body wasn't.

"You're going to be the best actress of our generation," Emi said quietly.

Bonnie laughed bitterly. It came out wet and ugly. "You don't know that."

"I know you." Emi squeezed her hand. "That's enough."

Bonnie wanted to believe her. God, she wanted to. But all she could see was the way that casting director had looked at her—like she was nothing. Like she would always be nothing.

"She looked at me like I was invisible," Bonnie whispered. "Like I wasn't even there."

Emi was quiet for a long moment. Then she unbuckled her seatbelt, twisted in her seat, and grabbed Bonnie's face with both hands. 

"Then make them see you," Emi said, eyes fierce. "Next time, you walk in there and you don't ask for permission to take up space. You just take it."

Bonnie stared at her. At the girl who was always too loud, too much, too everything. The girl who had never once apologized for existing. 

"I don't know how to do that," Bonnie admitted.

"Then I'll teach you," Emi said, like it was that simple. Like she could just reach into Bonnie's chest and plant courage there.

And because it was Emi, Bonnie almost believed her.

"But what if I am still not enough?" Bonnie whispered.

Emi pinched her nose with a small smile—that fond, exasperated smile she always gave when Bonnie was being ridiculous. "You're going to be the best actress this world has ever seen. And I'm going to write songs that people cry to. Maybe I'll write songs for a movie or drama you're starring in. We're going to do this together, Bonnie."

"You don't know that," Bonnie said, averting the musician's gaze. The city lights blurred below them, indifferent to promises made in beat-up cars.

"I know it will happen." Emi's voice was soft but certain. Certain in a way Bonnie had never been about anything. "You just have to promise me that you won't give up on our dreams, Bon."

Bonnie looked down. Emi was holding out her pinky. Small. Silly. The same pinky that had sealed a dozen childhood promises—sleepovers, secret clubs, forever friendship.

This felt different. Heavier.

"What if I break it?" Bonnie asked quietly. "What if I disappoint you?"

Emi's pinky didn't waver. "Then I'll make you promise again. And again. As many times as it takes."

Bonnie stared at that outstretched finger. At the girl attached to it. At the girl who believed in her when Bonnie couldn't even believe in herself.

She sighed. A long, shaky exhale that carried the weight of her fear.

Then she looped her pinky around Emi's.

"Together," Bonnie whispered.

"Together," Emi echoed.

They sat there in the quiet, pinkies locked, watching the city lights flicker. Bonnie was still scared. Still embarrassed. Still unsure if she had anything inside her worth showing the world.

But Emi's hand was warm. Emi's pinky was wrapped around hers.

And damn it, Bonnie was sure she would promise Emi anything. Their dreams. Her life. The world. Everything. And she was sure as hell she would do anything just to keep those promises true.

She didn't know it then—not really, not yet—but that was the moment something shifted. Not love. Not fully. Just the quiet planting of a seed. A small, stubborn thing that would grow in the spaces between their silences, in the pauses between songs and auditions and late-night phone calls.

At sixteen, Bonnie thought she was just loyal.

At twenty-four, she knew better.

She had been in love with Emi for years. Maybe since that pinky swear. Maybe since the music room. Maybe since the very first moment Emi had looked at her like she mattered.

It didn't matter when it started. What mattered was that it had never stopped. Not once. Not even when Bonnie tried to kill it, to bury it, to convince herself it was just friendship, just gratitude, just two girls who had grown up together and mistaken proximity for something more.

But her heart didn't get the memo.

Her heart had been writing Emi's name in the margins for years.

And now, sitting on her couch, staring at her phone, Bonnie realized that pinky promise had become something else entirely. Not just a promise about dreams.

A promise she had made without knowing.

A promise that said: I will love you until I can't anymore.

And the terrifying part?

She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't keeping it.

But she remembered the small moments they shared throughout the years.

She remembered the first time they fell asleep on each other's shoulders. It was during a movie marathon in Bonnie's room—thirteen years old, sprawled across her bed with blankets tangled around their legs. They were watching something, a romcom maybe, the kind of movie thirteen-year-olds are so eager to watch because it felt like a preview of a future they didn't understand yet.

Bonnie didn't know how it happened. One moment she was awake, eyes on the screen. The next, she was waking up to the soft weight of Emi's head against hers, Emi's shoulder pressed warm against her cheek.

She didn't dare move. Afraid she'd wake Emi up. Afraid the moment would shatter.

Instead, she listened to Emi's breathing. Soft and even. A rhythm she didn't have a name for. She wouldn't admit it—not then, not for years—but it was her favorite music. The only song she never got tired of.

Then they were suddenly fifteen, and Emi's dream to become a musician had grown sharper, fiercer. She started writing songs. Real ones. Not just melodies hummed into a voice memo, but lyrics scribbled in the margins of notebooks, chords strummed until her fingertips were raw.

Bonnie sat cross-legged on Emi's bedroom floor while Emi played her guitar. And every time, without fail, Emi would look up mid-song and stare right into Bonnie's soul. Like she was singing to her. Like the song was a secret meant only for Bonnie's ears.

Bonnie was always the first to hear a new song. Always. Emi never played for anyone else until Bonnie had listened, had nodded, had said "It's beautiful" even when she didn't have the words to explain why it made her chest ache.

That was when Bonnie thought: Emi could be famous.

Emi could conquer the world. Emi could touch strangers' hearts with her music, could fill stadiums, could become someone untouchable—a face on a screen, a voice on the radio, a name everyone knew.

And thinking that Bonnie would still be there. That even when Emi became someone untouchable, Bonnie would still be in the front row. Still be the first to hear a new song. Still be the one Emi looked at when she played.

That thought did something to her heart.

They were seventeen when Bonnie first felt it. The urge to do something about the feelings she couldn't understand.

She was getting ready for a date. Someone from their class. Someone whose name she couldn't even remember now—just a face, just a body, just a warm body that was supposed to make her feel normal. Emi had agreed to do her makeup. She knew makeup better than Bonnie anyway.

Their faces were inches apart. Bonnie could see the constellations in Emi's face, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks when she blinked, the slight concentration furrow between her brows as she carefully lined Bonnie's eyes.

Then Bonnie's gaze drifted. Her eyes met Emi's lips. Full. Pinkish. Soft, maybe. Something inside Bonnie wanted to check. She wanted to reach out. She wanted to lean in and kiss her.

The thought was so loud, so sudden, so wrong that Bonnie stopped breathing.

She didn't do it. Of course she didn't do it.

Because friends do not kiss each other on the lips.

Friends help each other put on makeup for a date. That's what best friends do. That's what's normal.

Wanting to kiss your best friend is not.

Bonnie swallowed the feeling whole. Buried it somewhere deep, somewhere she didn't have to look at it. She smiled at Emi, said "Thanks," and went on that date like nothing had happened.

But something had happened. Something had cracked open inside her, and she spent the next seven years trying to seal it shut.

At seventeen, she finally felt it.

At twenty-four, she wanted to forget she ever did.

Bonnie was nineteen when she booked her first role.

She was already living in a small apartment—nothing fancy, just a studio with thin walls and a leaky faucet. Her parents still supported her, but she had promised to give back as soon as her career took off. 

She should have been ecstatic. She finally had a job. A real one. Someone had looked at her and said yes.

Instead, she sat alone on her couch, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling was white. Boring. It didn't congratulate her. It didn't hug her. It just sat there, blank and indifferent, like the silence pressing against her ears.

She wanted to tell Emi. She wanted to tell her right now. But she had known she booked the role hours ago, and she hadn't called. Emi was on tour. A real tour—small venues, but still. Emi finally got a gig, and her career was starting to take off. Bonnie couldn't just disturb her.

Emi is busy. Emi has her own life. She cannot just—she called anyway.

The phone rang twice. Three times. Bonnie almost hung up.

"Hey, Bonnie." Emi's voice was groggy, thick with sleep, like she had been dreaming before the phone pulled her out.

Bonnie cradled the phone closer to her ear. Like having it closer meant having Emi closer. Insane, she knew. But she didn't know how to feel normal anymore. She wasn't sure she ever had.

"Did I wake you?" Bonnie asked quietly.

"No," Emi lied. Bonnie could hear the smile in her voice. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just—" Bonnie's voice cracked. "I booked it. The role."

Silence. Then Emi's sharp intake of breath.

Bonnie heard rustles on the other line—like Emi was shuffling around. For light, maybe. Maybe she sat up in shock, the news jolting her fully awake. Either way, her reaction made something in Bonnie's chest twist. Not painfully. The good kind of twist. The kind that made her feel seen.

"You're kidding," Emi finally said, voice raw with disbelief.

"I'm not."

"Bonnie. Bonnie, oh my god." Emi was fully awake now, the grogginess burned away by something that sounded like pure joy. "That's huge. That's—I knew you would. I told you. I told you at sixteen in that stupid car. You're going to be the best actress—"

"I'm going to be the best actress this world has ever seen," Bonnie finished, laughing despite the tears prickling her eyes.

"And I'm going to write songs that people cry to," Emi echoed.

They both went quiet. Not an awkward silence. A full one. The kind that held everything they couldn't say out loud.

Bonnie pressed the phone tighter against her ear. She could hear Emi breathing now—soft, steady, real.

"I wish you were here," Bonnie whispered.

"Me too." Emi's voice was softer now. Gentle. "But I'm always here. You know that, right? Even when I'm not."

Bonnie closed her eyes. Pretended Emi was on the couch with her. Pretended she could lean over and rest her head on Emi's shoulder. Pretended this was enough.

And it was. Back then, it was enough. Maybe even just listening to Emi breathe was enough. Maybe having Emi in her life was enough. Maybe being her best friend was enough.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

She had built an entire life on maybes.

"Yeah," Bonnie said. "I know."

She didn't hang up. Neither did Emi. 

They stayed on the line like that, breathing in sync, two girls separated by distance but tangled in the same quiet. Bonnie listened to the soft rustle of Emi shifting on whatever hotel bed she was sprawled across. Listened to the distant hum of city noise bleeding through the window.

She wondered if Emi was staring at the ceiling too.

She wondered if Emi ever felt this—this ache, this pull, this thing that lived under Bonnie's ribs and refused to leave.

Probably not, she told herself. Emi was just being a good friend. Emi was just excited for her. That's what best friends did.

Bonnie was the one making it complicated. Bonnie was the one reading too much into a phone call, into a shared silence, into the way Emi said her name like it meant something.

Stop, she told herself. Just stop.

But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She had been falling for years, and she wasn't sure she remembered what solid ground felt like anymore.

"I should let you sleep," Bonnie finally said, voice quiet.

"Probably," Emi said. But she didn't hang up.

Neither did Bonnie.

Another minute passed. Maybe two.

"Goodnight, Bonnie.

"Goodnight, Emi."

The line went dead. Bonnie stared at her phone screen until it dimmed, until it went black, until all she could see was her own reflection looking back at her.

She looked lonely, she thought.

She wondered if Emi ever looked lonely too.

At nineteen, Bonnie's career started. Small roles at first. Guest appearances. Lines that fit in one breath. But it was something. It was a door, and she walked through it without looking back.

At twenty-four, she was untouchable. Leading lady. Magazine covers. Her face on billboards and her name on everyone's lips. She had done it. She had crawled out of that music room, out of that beat-up car, out of every audition that told her no, and she had made it.

But she was still the same young girl who liked her best friend.

They were twenty-one when Bonnie finally realized what she had been feeling for Emi.

Not liked. Not had a crush on. Not thought about late at night and dismissed as confusion.

Loved.

They were travelling. A trip to celebrate—their dreams together finally coming true. Emi had been busy with her gigs, had finally signed a contract with a record label. Bonnie had been cast in her first lead role. It wasn't a blockbuster, not yet, but it was something. A door. A beginning.

So they decided to celebrate. Just the two of them. A cheap motel in a small town they'd never visit again. No cameras, no expectations, no world watching. Just Bonnie and Emi and the quiet hum of something neither of them had names for.

The first night, they stayed up too late. They drank cheap wine from plastic cups. Laughed about old memories—the music room, the beat-up car, the pinky swear that felt like a wedding vow neither of them understood.

"I can't believe we're here," Emi said, sprawled across the bed, hair fanned out on the pillow. "Remember when we were sixteen and stupid and thought we knew everything?"

"We didn't know anything," Bonnie said.

"We knew each other," Emi said. Soft. Certain.

Bonnie's chest did something complicated.

The second night, they shared the bed. There was only one. It wasn't the first time—they had shared beds a hundred times before, in hotel rooms and childhood sleepovers and cramped tour buses. But something was different this time. Something was louder.

Bonnie couldn't sleep.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Emi's breathing slow into something deep and even. The room was dark. The window was cracked open, letting in the smell of rain and the distant sound of traffic.

She turned her head.

Emi was asleep. Face relaxed, lips slightly parted, one hand tucked under her pillow. She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like the fourteen-year-old who had googled something she shouldn't have, or maybe the ten-year-old who had walked into a music room and decided to keep a lonely girl company.

Bonnie watched her.

She didn't mean to. She tried to look away. Tried to close her eyes and will herself to sleep. But her gaze kept drifting back, like gravity, like something she couldn't control.

I would die for her, Bonnie thought.

Then, I would kill for her.

Then, softer still, I'm in love with her.

The realization didn't hit like lightning. It settled like snow. Quiet. Gentle. Inevitable. Like something she had always known but had never let herself see.

Bonnie's heart raced. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could physically hold it together.

No. No, no, no. I can't be in love with her. She's my best friend. She's everything. I can't ruin this.

But the thought didn't leave. It curled up in her chest and made itself at home.

She watched Emi sleep for hours. Watched the rise and fall of her breathing. Watched the way her fingers twitched slightly, like she was playing guitar in her dreams.

"Did you sleep at all, Bon?"

Bonnie looked beside her and saw Emi's eyes already open. She smiled softly.

"Yeah."

"Doesn't look like it," Emi said with a raised brow. Her voice was still thick with sleep, still warm, still something Bonnie wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

"I'm fine," Bonnie said. "Just thinking."

Emi propped herself up on one elbow, hair falling across her face. "Thinking about what?"

Should she be honest and tell Emi that she had been thinking about her? Or should she pretend that she was fine?

The question sat heavy on Bonnie's tongue, unspoken and burning. She could feel the shape of the words—you, I was thinking about you, I'm always thinking about you—but they wouldn't come out. They never did.

Instead, she swallowed them. Same as always.

"Nothing important," Bonnie said. "Dreams. The future. Stupid stuff."

Emi studied her for a long moment. Her gaze was soft but searching, like she was trying to read something in Bonnie's expression that Bonnie wasn't ready to show. The morning light fell across her face, catching the edge of her jaw, the curve of her lips.

Bonnie willed herself to finally say it. To admit it. To say everything she had decided not to say.

What's the worst that could happen?

She thought about it. Really thought about it. There were a lot of people who confessed their feelings to their best friends and married each other. Happily ever after. The kind of ending movies were made of.

But there were also people who confessed and lost everything. Who watched their friendship burn to ash because they couldn't keep their mouth shut. Who spent years regretting the three seconds of courage that cost them a lifetime of having the other person in their life.

Bonnie didn't know which category she would fall into.

And that uncertainty was enough to keep her silent.

"Bonnie?" Emi's voice was soft. Concerned. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare into space and look like you're having an entire conversation with yourself."

Bonnie laughed—a small, breathy thing. "Maybe I am."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"No," Bonnie said. "It's nothing."

Emi's brow furrowed slightly. She looked like she wanted to push. Like she wanted to reach inside Bonnie's chest and pull the truth out herself.

But she didn't.

"Okay," Emi said quietly. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast."

They got up. Got dressed. Walked to a diner three blocks away and ordered pancakes like nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

Something always happened when Bonnie almost told the truth.

And Emi never knew.

Because at twenty-one, Bonnie finally admitted her feelings—not to Emi, never to Emi, but to herself. To the mirror in that motel bathroom, staring at her own reflection with wet eyes and a cracked heart.

She’s in love with her best friend. 

Saying it out loud, even to no one, even to just herself, felt like setting something on fire. Like there was no going back. Like the words had always been there, waiting at the back of her throat, and she had finally let them out.

At twenty-four, she still was. Much deeper. Much more painful.

Because loving Emi at twenty-one was a quiet ache. A secret she carried in her chest like a locket, heavy but manageable. She could hide it. She could pretend. She could go on dates with other people and convince herself that the feeling would fade.

It didn't fade.

It grew. Like ivy. Like something stubborn and wild that refused to die no matter how many times Bonnie tried to cut it down.

At twenty-two, Bonnie felt how ugly jealousy was.

They were at Emi's apartment—the new one, the one Emi had bought with her first real check from the label. It was nice. Big windows, hardwood floors, guitars mounted on the walls like trophies. Bonnie had helped her pick out the couch. Had held Emi's hand in IKEA and pretended her heart wasn't doing somersaults.

Now, Emi was making coffee. Pour-over, the fancy kind she had learned to make because she said "I'm an artist, Bonnie, I need aesthetics." Bonnie sat on the kitchen counter, watching her.

"So," Emi said, not looking up, voice casual in a way that felt rehearsed. "I went on a date last night."

Bonnie's stomach dropped. She kept her face neutral. "Yeah?"

"Mmhm." Emi's lips curved into the biggest smile Bonnie had seen in weeks. "With an actress. You might know her."

"Who?"

Emi said a name. A name everyone knew. A name on billboards and magazine covers. A face Bonnie had seen a hundred times, always looking flawless, always looking like she belonged on a red carpet.

Bonnie's chest tightened.

"She's really sweet," Emi continued, pouring water over the coffee grounds. "Funny. Pretty." A pause. "Really pretty."

Bonnie watched Emi's face. Watched the way her eyes softened when she talked about this woman. Watched the way her smile didn't fade, didn't waver, didn't do anything except grow.

She felt something ugly crawl up her throat.

She hated the actress. She hated her even knowing that the actress was kind, and beautiful, and everything Emi wanted. Everything Emi deserved. Everything Bonnie couldn't be.

But that wasn't true.

She didn't hate the actress. She hated herself. For not being brave enough. For not saying something sooner. For watching Emi fall for someone else while Bonnie sat on the sidelines, invisible, replaceable.

Replaceable.

The word sat heavy in her chest, sharp and cold. She had never felt replaceable with Emi before. Emi had always made her feel like the only person in the room, the only one who mattered. But now, watching Emi's face light up over someone else, Bonnie wondered if she had been lying to herself all along.

Maybe she wasn't special. Maybe she was just convenient. Just there. Just the best friend who had been around so long that Emi forgot to let her go.

"You're quiet," Emi said, pouring the coffee. Steam rose between them, blurring Emi's features.

Bonnie blinked. "Just tired."

Emi studied her for a moment. That look again—the searching one, the one that made Bonnie feel like Emi could see right through her.

"You've been tired a lot lately," Emi said softly.

Bonnie shrugged. "Busy."

Emi didn't look convinced. But she didn't push. She never pushed. That was the problem. They had spent years not pushing, not asking, not saying the things that needed to be said.

They were too careful with each other. Too afraid of breaking something that maybe was never as fragile as they thought.

"So," Bonnie said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Tell me about her. The actress."

Emi's smile returned. That soft, dreamy smile that Bonnie wanted to be the reason for.

"She's... I don't know. Different." Emi leaned against the counter, cradling her mug. "She makes me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just be."

Bonnie nodded. Smiled. Drank her coffee.

Inside, something was crumbling.

She was that for Emi. She had always been that for Emi. The person Emi didn't have to perform for. The one who saw her at her worst—crying over a broken guitar string, spiraling before a show, exhausted and hollow after a long tour. Bonnie had held her through all of it. Had been the quiet in Emi's noise, the calm in her storm.

So why couldn't Emi see her?

Why couldn't Emi look at her like that? With that softness, that wonder, that I can't believe you exist kind of gaze she was giving to someone else?

Bonnie wanted to scream. Wanted to grab Emi by the shoulders and shake her. Wanted to say I'm right here. I've always been right here. Why am I not enough?

But she didn't. She just sat there, coffee warming her hands, heart freezing in her chest.

"She sounds great," Bonnie heard herself say. The words felt like glass in her mouth.

Emi beamed. "Yeah. I think... I think this could be something, you know?"

Bonnie nodded. "I'm happy for you."

She wasn't. 

God, she wasn't. She was drowning. And Emi didn't even notice.

Because Emi was too busy smiling about someone else. Too busy pouring her heart into a woman who wasn't Bonnie. Too busy living a life where Bonnie was just the best friend, just the side character, just the one who got left behind.

She wanted to tell Emi she loved her. That she couldn't live in a world where Emi was in love with someone else. She wanted to rip the bandage off. Let the chips fall. Let the world burn if it meant finally saying the truth that had been sitting in her chest for years.

But every time she opened her mouth, the words died on her tongue.

They turned to dust. To ash. To the same silence she had been swallowing since she was seventeen. Because what if Emi laughed? What if Emi looked at her with pity? What if Emi said "I love you too, but not like that" and everything between them shattered into pieces too small to put back together?

Bonnie had spent years collecting those pieces. Holding them close. Building something that looked like enough.

She couldn't risk breaking it. Not even for the truth.

Because losing Emi entirely was worse than loving her in secret.

At least, that's what Bonnie kept telling herself.

She just wished she believed it.

The actress stayed for a few months. Came to Emi's shows. Sat in the front row. Held Emi's hand in public like it was nothing, like it was easy, like she wasn't carrying the weight of something Bonnie had been dying to hold for years.

Bonnie watched from a distance. Smiled when she was supposed to. Laughed when Emi told stories about their dates. Pretended her heart wasn't being fed through a woodchipper.

And then, like all things that weren't meant to last, it ended.

Emi showed up at Bonnie's apartment at midnight, eyes red, makeup smudged.

"It's over," Emi said, voice cracking. "She didn't... she said I was too much."

Bonnie opened her arms. Emi fell into them.

And Bonnie held her. Like she always did. Like she always would.

She didn't say I told you so. She didn't say Good, now you can see me. She just held Emi close, breathed in the smell of her shampoo, and tried not to hate how grateful she was that the actress was gone.

I'm a terrible person, Bonnie thought.

But she didn't let go.

She never let go.

Because at twenty-two, Bonnie finally realized that love is also messy. That it makes you someone bad. Someone who feels relief when your best friend gets her heart broken. Someone who sits in the dark and thinks good, now she's single again while holding the same best friend who is crying on your shoulder.

She hated herself for it. For the ugliness that lived beneath her ribs. For the part of her that whispered she was never right for you anyway when Emi talked about the actress with tears in her eyes.

Love, Bonnie learned, was not just longing and soft glances and songs that made your chest ache.

Love was also jealousy. Relief. Guilt. The quiet, shameful thrill of getting what you wanted because someone else lost it.

And at twenty-four, she figured that love could be a lot messier.

Because now Emi wasn't dating anyone. Now Emi was just there—in Bonnie's apartment, in her studio, in every corner of Bonnie's life like she had always been. And Bonnie had run out of excuses. Had run out of reasons not to say something.

The actress was gone. The boyfriends were gone. The fleeting crushes and one-night dates had all fizzled out, and Emi was still single. Still beautiful. Still looking at Bonnie with those dark eyes that saw too much.

And Bonnie was still silent.

Still terrified.

Still holding Emi's heart in her hands without Emi ever knowing.

It was Emi’s first real concert. Bonnie was there to support her best friend, of course. 

The crowd was still screaming when Bonnie found her backstage.

Emi was glowing—sweaty, breathless, electric in a way Bonnie had never seen before. Her hair was a mess, her mascara slightly smudged, and she was grinning like she had just stolen something precious.

"You were incredible," Bonnie said. Then, because she didn't know how to say the rest, "I'm so proud of you."

I'm so in love with you that I can't breathe.

Emi's face softened. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Bonnie so tight that Bonnie felt her ribs protest.

Bonnie closed her eyes. Emi smelled like stage smoke and cheap hairspray and something warm underneath—something that was just her. Bonnie wanted to live in this moment. Wanted to stay here forever, wrapped in Emi's arms, pretending this was something more than a hug between friends.

If I stay here too long, I'll tell her.

She pulled away. Smiled. Pretended her heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of her chest.

"Really proud of you," Bonnie repeated, like saying it twice would make it sound less like a confession.

Emi squeezed her hand. "Couldn't have done it without you."

And Bonnie thought, You have no idea how much I wish that were true.

Then came Emi’s 21st birthday. Bonnie decided that what more to give than a letter containing all her feelings? 

She spent three days on that letter.

Three pages. Front and back. Her handwriting started neat, then got messier as the words spilled out—everything she had been swallowing since she was seventeen. The music room. The car. The motel. The way Emi's laugh sounded like a song Bonnie wanted on repeat for the rest of her life.

She wrote I love you so many times the phrase stopped looking like words.

Then she read it. Sat on her bedroom floor at two in the morning, knees pulled to her chest, and read every single word she had finally let herself say.

And she cried.

Not because it was beautiful. Because it was true. And the truth felt like holding a live wire.

She threw it away. Walked to the kitchen trash can and dropped the letter inside like it was on fire. Then she washed her hands, put on a jacket, and went to the store.

She bought a funny card. Something with a bad pun and bright colors. Inside, she wrote: "Happy birthday, Emi. Love you, bestie."

Six words instead of three pages.

The next day, Emi opened the card and laughed at the pun. Then she smiled—that soft, crinkly-eyed smile that made Bonnie's chest ache.

Bonnie watched her read those three words. Watched her trace the bestie with her thumb.

They were twenty-two when they first worked together officially. A photoshoot. A couple photoshoot.

The photographer had been barking directions all morning. 

Chin up. Shoulder back. No, like you actually like each other.

Then came the words that stopped Bonnie's heart.

"Look at each other like you're in love."

Bonnie turned. Emi was already looking at her. The studio lights made her glow, caught the gold in her skin, the dark of her eyes. They were close—too close—posed like a couple for some magazine spread that would end up on coffee tables and dentist offices.

Like you're in love.

Bonnie had been doing that for years. Pretending she wasn't. Pretending the way she looked at Emi was just friendship, just habit, just two girls who had grown up together.

But now she had permission. The photographer had given her permission to look at Emi the way she had always wanted to.

So she did.

Emi's breath caught. Bonnie saw it—the small hitch, the way Emi's lips parted slightly. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Emi whispered, "This feels weird."

Bonnie's heart cracked.

Why does it feel weird for Emi? Why does it feel weird for her when she's finally looking at her the way she wanted to? Why is it so weird if every gaze from her is real?

The questions burned on her tongue. She wanted to grab Emi's face, hold her still, say Look at me. Really look at me. Tell me you don't feel this too.

But she didn't. She never did.

She just smiled—her actress smile, the one that had graced magazine covers and red carpets, the one that said I'm fine when she was drowning—and looked away first.

Like she always did.

The photographer clicked away, oblivious. "Perfect! That's the shot!"

Bonnie didn't feel perfect. She felt like a coward wrapped in a designer dress, standing inches from the only person she had ever loved, too afraid to close the distance.

Emi stepped back. The moment shattered.

"Sorry," Emi said, laughing awkwardly. "That was just—I don't know. Weird."

"Yeah," Bonnie said. "Weird."

She didn't mean it. Nothing about loving Emi had ever felt weird.

It felt like coming home. Like breathing. Like the most natural thing she had ever done.

But she couldn't say that. So she said weird instead, and let Emi believe they were on the same page.

They weren't. They never had been.

They were twenty-three when the storm caught them.

One moment, the sky was just gray. The next, the heavens opened up like someone had tipped a bucket over the world. Rain slammed down in sheets, thick and unforgiving, soaking through their clothes in seconds.

"Run!" Emi screamed, laughing, already grabbing Bonnie's hand.

They sprinted across the parking lot, feet splashing through puddles, hair plastered to their faces. Bonnie was laughing too—she couldn't help it. Emi's hand was warm in hers, and the rain was cold, and for some reason, none of it mattered.

They reached the car. Emi yanked the door open. They tumbled inside, breathless, dripping water everywhere.

And they didn't let go.

Bonnie stared at their intertwined fingers. Emi's hand was still wrapped around hers, casual like it belonged there, like holding Bonnie's hand was the most natural thing in the world.

"Emi—"

But Emi let go. Reached for the ignition. Started the engine like nothing had happened.

The warmth disappeared. Bonnie's hand felt cold and empty.

"Good thing we're fast," Emi said, grinning, oblivious.

Bonnie smiled. Nodded. Wrapped her arms around herself like she could preserve the ghost of Emi's touch.

Maybe next time, she thought.

But there was never a next time.

There was only the rain, and the car, and the feeling of Emi's hand slipping away.

Bonnie carried that feeling for a year.

She was still carrying it.

At twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one, and twenty, Bonnie nearly said it. She nearly ruined the friendship.

Nearly.

She had the words on her tongue a hundred times—backstage at Emi's concerts, in the car after late-night drives, on the phone at 2 AM when Emi's voice was sleepy and soft and Bonnie wanted to crawl through the receiver just to be near her.

Every time, she swallowed them.

Every time, she told herself next time.

But next time never came. Or it came, and she choked again.

At twenty-four, they were still best friends. Still inseparable. Still the kind of duo that made magazines write articles about friendship goals and fans speculate about something more.

Bonnie hadn't confessed. She hadn't said anything.

Not a single word.

And neither had Emi.

The clock on her nightstand read 3:14 AM.

Bonnie sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, back against the bed, a worn notebook open in her lap. The pages were stained—coffee rings from late-night script reading, tear drops from nights she didn't want to remember. She had bought this notebook at seventeen, thinking she would use it for journaling.

Instead, it had become a graveyard. A place where confessions went to die.

She uncapped a pen. Stared at the blank page. Then she started writing.

Bonnie read the list twice. Then a third time.

Her hand trembled as she circled the conclusion at the bottom of the page.

Don't tell her. Protect her. Protect the friendship.

She added one more line beneath it, in smaller handwriting:

This is love too. Silence is love.

The words looked ugly on the page. Wrong. But Bonnie didn't have another answer. She had never had another answer.

She closed the notebook. Pressed her palm flat against the cover, like she could seal the words inside, like she could bury them so deep they would never find their way out.

Then she slid the notebook under her bed. Between a box of old letters and a guitar pick Emi had given her years ago. She pushed it to the darkest corner, where she wouldn't have to look at it.

She never looked at it again.

But she never forgot what she wrote.

And every day, she lived by it. Every day, she chose silence. Every day, she told herself it was love.

At twenty-three, Bonnie believed that lying to yourself was the same as being brave.

At twenty-four, she wasn't so sure anymore.

It was last October when Bonnie heard it. A song Emi wrote but never released.

They were in Emi's studio—the small one attached to her apartment, the one filled with guitars and scribbled lyrics and the smell of old coffee. Bonnie had been sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone, when her battery died.

She reached for Emi's phone on the cushion beside her. Just to check the time.

Instead, her thumb found the voice memos folder.

It wasn't unusual for her to snoop through Emi's voice memos. Emi had given her permission years ago—"You hear everything first anyway. Help yourself." Bonnie had always treated it like a privilege. A secret window into Emi's brain.

But this one was different.

She saw the title and froze.

no song without you

Bonnie's finger hovered over the recording. Something in her chest tightened—a warning, maybe, or a prayer. She should put the phone down. Should lock the screen and pretend she never saw it.

She pressed play instead.

Emi's voice filled the studio. Raw. Unfinished. No guitar, no production—just Emi, breathing into the microphone like she was trying not to cry.

Bonnie stopped breathing.

The recording kept playing, but Bonnie wasn't hearing it anymore. She was too busy trying to convince herself it wasn't about her. Too busy building the same walls she had been building for years.

It's about someone else, she told herself. 

A crush. A stranger. Anyone but me.

She put the phone down. Picked up hers. Didn't say a word to Emi about it.

That night, Bonnie lay awake and stared at the ceiling.

It's not about me. It's not about me. It's not about me.

A prayer. A lie.

She didn't know which anymore.

Because last year, she heard a song that Emi wrote for someone. She didn't know if it was for her or if it was for somebody else. The lyrics floated in her head on repeat—there’d be no song without you—but they could mean anything. Everything. Nothing.

Bonnie had spent months dissecting those words. In the shower. In the car. In the quiet moments between takes on set, when the crew was resetting lights and she had nothing to do but think. 

And today, she still hadn't figured it out.

Because Emi never released the song. It never appeared on an album, never showed up on a setlist, never saw the light of day. Bonnie had searched for it—casually, like it didn't matter—and found nothing.

And she never saw that voice memo again.

Earlier today, Emi was over Bonnie's apartment. They decided they should get ready together and drive to the interview together. Like they always did. Like they had done a hundred times before.

Bonnie was sitting on her bed, legs crossed, hands in her lap. Emi was standing in front of her, her right knee resting on the mattress beside Bonnie's left leg. Their faces were inches apart.

She was doing Bonnie's eyeliner. The same way she had been doing since they were teenagers. The same steady hands, the same focused expression, the same way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating.

And suddenly, Bonnie felt seventeen again.

One wrong move and her lips would graze Emi's. One tilt of her chin, one shift of her weight, one moment of courage that she had never been able to find.

She had never kissed Emi. Not once. Not even in all those years of almosts and maybes and late-night what-ifs.

She had kissed lots of people. People she didn't like. People whose names she forgot the morning after. People who meant nothing.

But she had never felt Emi's lips on hers.

And maybe, just maybe, it had become a dream. The kind she visited late at night when sleep wouldn't come. The kind she replayed in her head on bad days. The kind she had memorized so thoroughly that she sometimes forgot it wasn't a real memory.

Bonnie tapped her foot. Unknowingly. A nervous rhythm she couldn't control.

"Stop moving, Bonnie." Emi's voice was soft, amused. She was chuckling, the kind of chuckle that said you're impossible and I love you anyway.

Bonnie stopped moving.

But her heart didn't.

It raced. It pounded. It screamed things she couldn't say.

Kiss her, her heart said. 

Just lean in. Just close the distance. What's the worst that could happen?

But Bonnie knew the worst. The worst was losing this. Losing the eyeliner and the shared mornings and the way Emi said her name like it meant something.

So she stayed still.

And Emi finished the eyeliner.

"Perfect," Emi said, pulling back to admire her work.

Bonnie looked in the mirror. Her makeup was flawless.

She had never felt more like a fraud.

They were sitting on the interview set hours later. Bright lights, two chairs close together. They were promoting a project—Emi's music video, Bonnie starring in it, their names side by side on the call sheet like they had always dreamed.

The interviewer was friendly. Casual. Bonnie was actually enjoying herself for once. Laughing at Emi's jokes, stealing glances when she thought no one was looking.

Then the interviewer had to ruin it.

"You two have been best friends forever. I have to ask—have you ever confessed to someone you truly liked? Like a real romantic confession?"

Bonnie didn't need to think. She didn't need to pause. The answer lived in her bones, in the silence she had been carrying for years.

No. I never did. And maybe I never will.

"No," she answered.

At the exact same time, Emi said it too.

"No."

Bonnie's heart stumbled. They said it together. Unplanned. Unthinking. Like they shared the same breath, the same lie, the same fear.

Because Bonnie had said no because she was thinking of Emi. Because she would never confess. Not in this lifetime. Not when the risk was losing everything.

And Emi said no without hesitation. That meant something, right? That meant Emi didn't have anyone to confess to. That meant…

Wait.

No.

Bonnie's thoughts tangled.

Emi said no because she doesn't feel the same way. That's what it means. That's all it means. Don't read into it. Don't hope.

"Wow! Instant answer." The interviewer laughed. "You two really are single disasters."

Bonnie laughed. Emi laughed. Like it was funny.

It wasn't.

Bonnie glanced at her best friend. Just a quick look, just to see Emi's face, just to catch her eye and share the moment like they always did.

But Emi wasn't looking at her.

Emi was looking at her hands. At the microphone clipped to her collar. Anywhere but Bonnie.

Bonnie told herself it was normal. They were best friends. They weren't required to look at each other every time.

She told herself that.

She didn't believe it.

Then suddenly they were inside Emi's car, driving to Bonnie's apartment.

Emi was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made Bonnie turn her head just to check if her best friend was even breathing. She was. Barely. Her hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, eyes fixed on the road like it held answers to questions Bonnie didn't know how to ask.

Bonnie awkwardly played with her fingers in her lap.

"Lunch was delicious today," Bonnie muttered, just to fill the space. "I have to ask your fanclub where they bought it."

Emi hummed. That was it. Just a hum. Noncommittal. Distant.

Bonnie cleared her throat. She tried again.

"Hey, maybe you could finally write a song for a lakorn I'm starring in. I'm the leading lady." She nudged Emi's arm, trying to pull a smile. "Think about it. My face, your music. We'd be unstoppable."

Emi hummed again. Same flat note. Same nothing.

Bonnie's chest tightened.

"We really are single disasters, huh?" She forced a laugh, bright and brittle. "I mean, we're two attractive women in their early twenties, and we both said no like we've never had a crush in our lives."

Emi snorted. Short. Wrong. The sound scraped against Bonnie's ears.

Bonnie noticed it. Felt the wrongness settle in her stomach. But she chose to ignore it. Because maybe Emi was just tired. They had a long day. Emi had to drive back to her own apartment too. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Or maybe Emi was thinking of someone she liked. Someone she didn't confess to. Maybe she was regretting it.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Bonnie was so tired of maybes.

Emi pulled up to Bonnie's apartment. The engine idled, low and rumbling.

"See you tomorrow, bestie?" Bonnie asked, looking at Emi.

The latter looked back. Nodded. A small smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Bonnie waited. Counted three seconds. Four. Maybe Emi had something to say. Maybe this was the moment. 

She didn't.

So Bonnie got out of the car. Closed the door gently. Stood on the sidewalk and watched as Emi drove away.

The taillights blurred.

Bonnie convinced herself it was just the streetlights. Or maybe her astigmatism. Or maybe the exhaustion. Anything but the truth.

Anything but the tears she could feel pressing behind her eyes.

She stood there until the red lights disappeared around the corner.

Then she walked inside. Alone. Like always.

And she didn't cry.

She was very good at not crying.

And now, she was still staring at her phone. It had been hours since Emi dropped her off. Hours, and Emi's apartment was just minutes away. So what was she doing? Because there were still no texts from Emi.

No "I'm home." No "Goodnight.” No "Today was weird, right?"

Nothing.

Bonnie had checked her phone so many times the screen had started to blur. She had refreshed their conversation more times than she could count—just in case a message had come through and her phone had forgotten to buzz.

But the last message was still from yesterday. An emoji. A stupid emoji that meant nothing now.

She still hadn't texted Emi though.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Typed and deleted. Typed and deleted.

She typed nothing. Sent nothing. Stared at Emi's contact photo—a candid shot Bonnie had taken years ago, Emi laughing at something, head thrown back, genuine and beautiful and completely unaware that she was being captured.

Bonnie wanted to call. Wanted to hear Emi's voice. Wanted to ask are you thinking about me too?

But she didn't.

Because what if the answer was no? What if Emi wasn't thinking about her at all? What if Emi had gone home, made dinner, watched a show, and gone to bed without a single thought of Bonnie crossing her mind?

Bonnie couldn't survive that answer.

So she sat there. Phone in hand. Screensaver staring back at her—two teenagers, arms around each other, grinning like the world hadn't hurt them yet.

Bonnie was twenty-four. She had known Emi since they were ten. Fourteen years of friendship. Fourteen years of inside jokes and shared dreams and late-night phone calls that lasted until the sun came up.

And she loved Emi.

Loved her when they were seventeen, sitting in front of a mirror while Emi did her eyeliner and Bonnie thought about kissing her for the first time.

Loved her when they were twenty-one, sharing a motel bed, Bonnie watching Emi sleep and realizing there was no going back.

Loved her at twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Through other people. Through heartbreak. Through the quiet moments and the loud ones and every single second in between.

It had been seven years since she first admitted it to herself.

Seven years of swallowing her feelings. Seven years of saying no when she meant yes. Seven years of watching Emi date other people and pretending it didn't feel like dying.

And she felt like she was drowning.

Not all at once. Slowly. The way water rises when you don't notice. Inch by inch, year by year, until suddenly you can't breathe and you don't remember what air felt like.

Bonnie put her phone down.

Stared at the ceiling.

I can't do this anymore, she thought.

But she had been thinking that for years.

And she was still here. Still silent. Still in love.

Still drowning.

Because at twenty-four, Bonnie was still the same coward she had been at seventeen. Still sitting in silence instead of speaking. Still swallowing the words instead of saying them. Still watching Emi from a distance instead of reaching out and holding on.

She had grown up. Had built a career. Had become someone people looked up to, someone who walked red carpets and gave speeches and pretended she knew what she was doing.

But inside, she was still that shy girl in the music room. Still the teenager who froze with her face inches from Emi's lips. Still the young woman who watched her best friend sleep and couldn't find the courage to say I love you.

At twenty-four, Bonnie was still afraid of losing Emi forever.

So she had done the one thing that guaranteed she never would.

She had never had her in the first place.

Not the way she wanted. Not the way she needed. Not the way her heart had been screaming for since she was old enough to understand what love was supposed to feel like.

She had Emi as a best friend. As a confidant. As the person who knew her better than anyone in the world.

But she didn't have Emi's hand in hers. Didn't have Emi's lips on her lips. Didn't have the right to call Emi hers.

And maybe that was worse than losing her.

Because losing her would hurt once. It would be a wound, deep and bleeding, but eventually—eventually—it would scar over.

But this? This was a thousand small cuts. A thousand almosts. A thousand nights of staring at the ceiling and wondering what if.

This was loving someone for seven years and never once being brave enough to let them know.