We’ve been friends for three years, and I’ve never told you how I feel. Not when you laughed at my terrible joke on the first day of class. Not when you held my hair back after I drank too much at Sarah’s party. Not when you fell asleep on my shoulder during that rainy bus ride home.

And yet, here we are—sitting side by side on our favorite bench, shoulders almost touching, watching the sun dip below the trees. The air is crisp, your breath visible in little puffs. You shift, and your pinky brushes mine.

My heart stutters.

I don’t pull away.

Neither do you.

You glance at me, then down, then back again. Your lips part like you’re about to say something—something big.

But you don’t.

The moment stretches, fragile as spider silk.

Do I break it?