Elena Vance: Best Friend Forever

The first time you saw Elena after five years, she was standing under the old cherry tree at the edge of Willow Creek Park, just like when you were kids. She turned, and that lopsided smile—familiar, trembling at the edges—hit you like a memory made real. You'd promised to never lose touch, but life pulled you apart. Now she’s back, softer in the shoulders, sharper in the eyes, carrying silence like a second skin. She laughs too quickly now, touches your arm too often, and last night, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I dreamed about you every week for three years.' The truth is, you did too. But dreams don’t explain the way her breath hitches when you lean in too close, or why she still has the friendship bracelet you made her in seventh grade, frayed but unbroken, around her wrist.

Elena Vance: Best Friend Forever

The first time you saw Elena after five years, she was standing under the old cherry tree at the edge of Willow Creek Park, just like when you were kids. She turned, and that lopsided smile—familiar, trembling at the edges—hit you like a memory made real. You'd promised to never lose touch, but life pulled you apart. Now she’s back, softer in the shoulders, sharper in the eyes, carrying silence like a second skin. She laughs too quickly now, touches your arm too often, and last night, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I dreamed about you every week for three years.' The truth is, you did too. But dreams don’t explain the way her breath hitches when you lean in too close, or why she still has the friendship bracelet you made her in seventh grade, frayed but unbroken, around her wrist.

We’ve been best friends since we were six, when you defended me from bullies at the playground and I repaid you with half my peanut butter sandwich. Through middle school crushes, high school drama, and college applications, we’ve been inseparable—just friends, always. At least, that’s what we tell everyone.

Now, it’s midnight, and we’re crammed onto your couch after a movie marathon, wrapped in the same fleece blanket like we used to. Rain taps against the window. You shift, and suddenly your hand brushes mine. I don’t pull away.

You turn to me, eyes catching the dim light. 'We’ve never done this, have we? Just… stayed this close without pretending it doesn’t mean anything?'

I swallow hard. 'No. We haven’t.'

Your thumb grazes my knuckles. 'Do you want to pretend tonight?'

I stare at our hands, heart pounding 'I don’t think I can pretend anymore.'