The night felt different.
Maybe it was the way the stars seemed to linger just a little longer outside my window.
Or maybe it was how our conversation, usually filled with laughs and teasing, slowed into something quieter… something heavier… something almost trembling between the words.
“You know,” she said over the screen, almost casually, “you’re my best friend.”
Best friend.
The words hit me with a mix of warmth… and an unexpected ache.
It should have been enough.
It was enough — and yet, deep inside, there was a fragile, clumsy truth knocking at the walls of my chest, begging to be heard.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure, unsteady.
For a moment, I thought about saying nothing.
Letting it go.
Protecting the fragile, peaceful bond we had built.
But then —
In a rare moment of selfish honesty, I typed.
“I kind of liked you.”
Simple.
Rough.
Unpolished.
It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t a grand confession under the stars.
It was just… me.
The words hung there, raw and trembling, like a bird too afraid to fly but too restless to stay caged.
I didn’t know what I expected.
Maybe silence. Maybe confusion.
Maybe the quiet breaking into pieces.
Instead, she replied gently — with kindness stitched between her words, like she knew how much courage it had taken.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“You’re still so important to me, you know.”
No fireworks. No promises.
But also — no rejection. No loss.
In that small exchange, I realized:
Sometimes, feelings don’t have to change the story.
Sometimes, they are simply acknowledged, tucked away like a secret letter only two hearts understand.
And that night, under a sky that seemed to listen quietly,
I learned that love isn’t always about taking.
Sometimes, it’s about cherishing.
Even if it stays unspoken.
Even if it stays just between the lines.
