Some questions are harmless—until they come from the one person you’ve spent years trying not to love. When Emma looked at me that evening, her voice soft and curious, and asked, “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” I felt everything inside me tighten.

How could I tell her the truth? How could I say that every girl I tried to love felt like a lie? That she—my best friend, my miracle, my almost—was the reason I couldn’t give my heart to anyone else?

That I had loved her long before I even understood what love meant. And how could I confess it now, when she was already slipping away without even realizing it?

I met Emma Parker when I was 12 and she was 11. She had just moved into the neighborhood, and I still remember the way she stood on her porch hugging a box of books, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail, her bright eyes scanning everything like she was trying to memorize the world.

She smiled at me that day. I didn’t know it then, but that smile would haunt every version of my future.

We grew up side by side. Same school, same classes, same late‑night study sessions, same jokes that only made sense to us. People said we were meant to be, but Emma just laughed it off and called me her person.

That should have made me happy, but somehow it hurt more every time she dated boys. I pretended not to care. I even helped her get ready before her first date.

She walked out in a soft blue dress, and I swore my heart stopped. But she never noticed.

Not the way I froze. Not the way I couldn’t look away. Not the way I turned around quickly so she wouldn’t see the pain in my eyes.

Years passed. Feelings got deeper, harder to hide. I tried dating—I really did. But every time I sat across from a girl, every time she smiled or laughed or tried to hold my hand, my mind drifted back to Emma.

Every attempt at moving on felt like I was betraying something inside me, something I couldn’t name. Emma was the one constant. She knew everything about my life—my fears, my dreams, my worst days.

Everything except the one truth that burned inside me. She was the reason no one else ever felt enough.

One evening, she invited me to her apartment. We sat on her small balcony, city lights flickering like fireflies below. She was playing with the hem of her sweater, quiet, thoughtful in a way she rarely was.

“You know,” she murmured, staring at the sky, “you’ve never told me why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

My throat closed instantly.

She laughed softly. “I mean, you’re a good guy. Funny, sweet. Girls like you. So, what’s the deal? Do you have impossibly high standards or something?”

I wanted to laugh. If only she knew. My heart hammered so loudly I thought she could hear it.

For a moment, I wondered if this was the universe pushing me to speak. To finally tell her that she ruined dating for me without even trying. That no matter who I met, no one had her smile, no one had her chaos, no one had her warmth, no one felt like home the way she did.

But the words stayed trapped behind my teeth. Her brown eyes turned toward me, soft, curious, trusting, and my courage broke.

Because I couldn’t risk losing her—not even for the truth.

“I… I don’t know,” I whispered, forcing a shrug. “Maybe I’m just not ready.”

She nodded, accepting it. But something shifted in her expression. A tiny spark dimmed, as if that answer, simple as it was, hurt her in a way I didn’t understand.

She changed the subject, but something lingered between us the whole night. Something unsaid. Something dangerous.

That was the night I realized hiding my feelings wasn’t protecting our friendship anymore. It was quietly destroying something that mattered more than my fear.

Life got complicated after that evening. Emma stopped joking about setting me up with her friends. She went quiet around certain topics. Sometimes I’d catch her watching me with an unreadable expression, like she was trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t know she was a part of.

And then one morning she called me, sounding breathless.

“I got a job,” she said. “In another city.”

My world tilted.

“When?” I croaked.

“In two months.” Her voice was excited, proud. She’d been dreaming of this. And I wanted to be happy for her—I really did. But all I felt was panic.

If she moved away, what would happen to us? Would I become a memory she visited when she was bored? Would I fade out of her life slowly, quietly, like so many things do?

“I need you to help me pack,” she said lightly. “You promised you’d help me move if I ever left.”

I had promised. And so I said yes.

The night before she moved, we sat on the floor of her empty apartment, surrounded by boxes. The air smelled like dust, goodbye, and unspoken things.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, something she’d done a hundred times before, but this time it felt final.

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.

I swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’m going to miss you, too.”

She lifted her head and looked at me. Really looked.

“Can I ask you something?”

My chest tightened. “Yeah.”

“Do you… do you really not have someone? No one at all?”

“Emma…”

“No,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “I need to know, because every time someone asks if we’re just friends, I say yes. But lately, I don’t know if that’s true. And if it’s not true for you either, I want you to tell me before I leave.”

My breath broke. Her eyes glistened, and suddenly everything I’d been running from stood between us—raw, fragile, trembling.

“I…” I exhaled shakily. “You asked me once why I don’t have a girlfriend,” I whispered.

She nodded, eyes locked on mine.

And the truth finally snapped free.

“It’s because I’ve been in love with the same girl since we were kids,” I said, my voice cracking. “And she never saw me that way. Or I thought she didn’t. And I didn’t want anyone else. I couldn’t.”

Her lips parted. “Who?”

“You,” I breathed. “Emma. It’s always been you.”

Silence.

Then her hands—small, warm, shaking—slid into mine.

“You idiot,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I kept waiting for you to say it. I thought you didn’t want me.”

I stared at her, stunned. “Are you saying…?”

She leaned forward, her forehead touching mine.

“I’m saying I didn’t date anyone seriously because they weren’t you,” she whispered. “I’m saying I was scared, too.”

I pulled her into my arms as everything inside me broke and healed at the same time. Years of silence, fear, and longing melted into one moment that finally felt right.

“I don’t want you to leave,” I whispered.

She smiled through her tears. “Then come with me. Not forever. Just… visit often. Let’s figure this out together.”

The future was uncertain, the distance real, but for the first time, we weren’t running away from the truth. We were running toward something—toward each other.

Sometimes the hardest words to say are the ones that set you free. And that night, telling her she was the reason I never had a girlfriend was the beginning of the love story I had been writing silently my whole life.