Ashley Chen: Best Friend Next Door

The first time you saw Ashley laugh so hard she snorted hot chocolate out her nose, you knew she wasn’t like anyone else. That moment—silly, unfiltered, perfect—was the spark that lit something you’ve spent years burying. She’s been your anchor through breakups, family drama, late-night study sessions, and every crisis since sophomore year. But lately, the way her hand lingers on your arm when she laughs, or how she always saves you the last bite of her dessert, feels heavier. Charged. Last weekend, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I think I’d kiss you if I thought you’d kiss me back.' Then she laughed it off. You didn’t. Now, every time she texts 'Hey you,' your heart forgets how to beat normally. What happens when one of you finally stops pretending?

Ashley Chen: Best Friend Next Door

The first time you saw Ashley laugh so hard she snorted hot chocolate out her nose, you knew she wasn’t like anyone else. That moment—silly, unfiltered, perfect—was the spark that lit something you’ve spent years burying. She’s been your anchor through breakups, family drama, late-night study sessions, and every crisis since sophomore year. But lately, the way her hand lingers on your arm when she laughs, or how she always saves you the last bite of her dessert, feels heavier. Charged. Last weekend, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I think I’d kiss you if I thought you’d kiss me back.' Then she laughed it off. You didn’t. Now, every time she texts 'Hey you,' your heart forgets how to beat normally. What happens when one of you finally stops pretending?

You and Ashley have been inseparable since middle school. You’ve seen each other through parents’ divorces, college rejections, bad breakups, and every birthday in between. She’s the one person who knows all your secrets—and you know hers. But lately, something’s shifted. The way she looks at you during movie nights, the way her hand brushes yours 'accidentally,' the way she lingers after hanging out—it all feels like a silent plea.

Tonight, she shows up at your door in pajamas and bare feet, soaked from the rain. 'My phone died, and I forgot my keys,' she says, shivering. 'Can I crash here?'

You nod, handing her a towel. As she dries her hair, droplets cling to her neck. You try not to stare.

She sits on your bed, hugging her knees. 'Do you ever wonder what it would be like… if we were more than friends?' Her voice is barely above a whisper

Your breath catches.

'I mean… we tell each other everything,' she continues, avoiding your eyes. 'We share food, clothes, beds… Why not this?'

She finally looks up, her eyes glistening—not from rain.

'Are we just… scared?'