Lara had long since learned to love Ewan in silence. It was easier than risking twenty years of friendship with one clumsy confession.
Only once had something unfamiliar flickered in his eyes—not the usual warmth of friendship, but something deeper, uneasy, almost painful. Lara sensed it instantly—they’d always understood each other without words.
“Something wrong?” she asked, setting her book aside.
His lips trembled, as if he meant to speak, then changed his mind.
“Nothing,” he muttered, turning sharply toward the window.
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
“Right, I should go,” he said finally, rising.
She didn’t stop him. Just nodded. What was there to say? Back then, neither Lara nor Ewan had been free.
***
They’d known each other forever.
At fourteen, they swore to be friends till death. At eighteen, they laughed at lovestruck classmates. At twenty-five, Ewan stood as her witness when she married. At thirty, Lara hauled him, drunk, out of a pub after his divorce.
Their first meeting—she was seven, he was nine. The neighbourhood kids were playing cops and robbers, but she, the youngest, stumbled behind. The older boys jeered, *”Crybaby!”*
Then Ewan, usually quiet, punched the ringleader so hard he landed in a puddle.
“Touch her again, and you’re done,” he said, wiping blood from his mouth.
After that, they were inseparable.
Shared memories—street brawls, first cigarettes behind the garages. Later, school where they dashed to the tuck shop at break, then different universities but the same habit—calling each other at midnight to share something important.
They were proper friends. The kind who survive first romances, weddings, even fights.
***
Lara had a steady husband—Daniel. He and Ewan never clicked. Ewan’s wife, Olivia, was clever, striking—but after one meeting with *”Lara, the battle-hardened mate,”* she declared, *”That girl’s not from my world.”* So no shared Christmases, no family barbecues.
But they remained *that* person for each other. The one you call at 3 a.m., slurring, *”I’m not okay,”* knowing they’ll listen. Or show up with tea—or something stronger.
That sort of friendship is priceless.
When Daniel left—taking half the furniture and her faith in *”happily ever after”*—Ewan was there. Stopped her drinking alone, endured her meltdowns, let her rehash *”How did I not see it?”*
Daniel had left for a young intern. Cliché, but Lara was the last to know.
“Didn’t you notice?” her friends asked.
No. Because on nights Daniel was “working late,” she was having dinner with Ewan. Laughing at his jokes, complaining about work, feeling… herself.
Ewan was the first to know. Came straight over after her choked *”He’s gone.”*
“I’m so tired of pretending to be happy,” she whispered, staring out the window.
“I know,” he said.
And she realised—he *did* know. Always had.
Olivia was different. She left in a fury, slamming the door—*”You’ll never love me like you love her!”*
Ewan didn’t argue.
When he told Lara, she scoffed, *”That’s insane. We’re just friends!”*
*”Just friends,”* he repeated, his gaze so raw it stole her breath.
*”She just didn’t know you,”* Lara said, pouring him a third whiskey. *”The real you.”*
*”Do you?”*
She shuddered. Remembered scribbling in her diary years ago—*Imagine telling him. He recoils. Awkwardness. Polite texts once a month. Group hangouts where you both avoid eye contact.*
She couldn’t risk losing him. Ewan was her anchor—the only one who knew her, *truly* knew her, and stayed. Even when she was unbearable (and her temper *was* something). She’d do anything for him. Almost anything.
But friendship isn’t love. What if they ruined it? What if he left too? How do people live without their *person*?
*”We’re nothing alike,”* she’d think when he argued with waiters about steak doneness.
*”I’m not her type,”* he’d remind himself as she rolled her eyes at his favourite action film.
Neither noticed how their bickering sparked private jokes no one else got. How their clashes lit a fire their “perfect” relationships lacked.
They loved in secret, as if breaking their childhood oath would doom them.
***
The truth came at Heathrow. Lara was leaving for Prague—new job, new life. Possibly forever.
“You forgot this,” Ewan said, handing her the scarf she’d left at his flat.
“Keep it,” she said. *”A souvenir.”*
His eyes held that look she’d seen a hundred times—and never let herself name.
*”I don’t want memories,”* he said suddenly. *”I want you.”*
Two words. Twenty years of waiting. A lifetime finally making sense.
*”If you leave now,”* he whispered, *”I won’t survive it.”*
Not *”I’ll be sad.”* Not *”I’ll miss you.”* But *”I won’t survive.”*
She smiled—slowly. First recognising *that* look. No—letting herself recognise it. Then realising—she was happy.
*”You know,”* she said, *”some things are worth missing a flight for.”*
*”So you’re staying?”* He pulled her close. *”Really?”*
On the way home, she thought—*”Once, I had everything. A husband, a cosy flat, stability. But not the one thing worth burning bridges for. Not love. Without it, every joy is hollow.”*
