Mia's POV
“Hey, Mia! Hurry up! You’re so slow, the rain’s going to catch up to us!”
Ethan’s voice drifted from the waiting shed ahead. He was standing there, effortlessly holding my bag as if it weighed nothing. Typical Ethan. A gentleman to a fault, insisting on carrying my things no matter how many times I told him I could handle it.
I picked up my pace, a mix of annoyance and fond laughter bubbling up. “And whose fault is that? You’re the one who craved milk tea and then took forever just to pick a flavor!”
He laughed—that bright, carefree sound that made it seem like he didn't have a single worry in the world. “Hey, it was my special treat for you. Best friend’s privilege.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't hide my smile. Best friend. For years, that was the label we wore like a second skin.
From high school until now, we were a package deal. We were fixtures in each other’s lives—in the classroom, the canteen, the library, and our usual bench at the park. Ethan was my safe space. He was the first person to know my heartaches and the first to celebrate my smallest victories.
To be honest, I didn't know how to exist in a world where he wasn't there.
“Come on, let’s get you home before your mom gets mad,” he said, reaching out to hand me my bag. But before I could take it, he pulled back slightly. “Or... do you want me to carry it all the way to your door again?”
“No way, it’s embarrassing. The neighbors already think you’re my boyfriend,” I joked. But as soon as the words left my lips, my heart skipped a traitorous beat.
I caught him smiling—a small, lingering look that felt heavier than usual. “And if they do think that... would it really be so bad?”
I froze. I couldn't tell if he was teasing or if there was a hidden truth behind his eyes. Before I could find my voice, he turned and started walking. I stayed there for a moment, watching his back, the questions dying in my throat.
That night, lying in bed, his words played on a loop in my head. Would it really be so bad? It felt different this time. Charged.
But before I could spiral into overthinking, my phone vibrated.
Ethan: Goodnight, Mia. Stay safe. Don't stay up too late. See you tomorrow.
I smiled, clutching the phone to my chest. Typical Ethan. Sweet. Caring.
I had no idea that the "tomorrow" he promised would never come.
The next day, I went to our spot at the park. I was carrying two cups of milk tea—his favorite and mine.
But when I arrived, the bench was empty.
I figured he was just running late. I waited. Ten minutes. Thirty. An hour.
Nothing.
I called—unreachable. I messaged—read, but no reply.
I watched a couple walk by, hand-in-hand and laughing, completely lost in their own world. For a fleeting second, I wondered: Could that have been us?
As the sun began to set, the park grew quiet and the air turned cold. I sat there alone on our bench, holding a lukewarm cup of tea that had lost all its sweetness.
I didn't understand. Just yesterday, we were planning our future. He had so much to say. But today, he had vanished like a ghost.
No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.
And there, on that bench, a tear escaped before I could even realize I was crying.
I’ve spent countless nights asking the same questions: What went wrong? Did I do something? Did I say something he hated?
But silence doesn't give answers. All I had left were memories of laughter and a broken promise of "see you tomorrow."
And maybe... that was the day I finally admitted the truth to myself.
I was in love with my best friend.
I’m back at the park now, months later. Still alone. I stare at the empty bench, feeling just as hollow as the space beside me. I whispered into the wind, hoping it might carry my voice to wherever he is:
“Why did you leave without saying goodbye, Ethan?”
The only response was a sharp gust of wind, chilling me to the bone.
I realized then that I might never get closure. I might never get my answers. But I knew one thing for certain: Ethan wasn't just my "best friend" anymore.
He was the reason for my deepest ache.
And somehow, he was still the only reason I kept hoping.