Lara had long learned to love Ethan in silence. It was easier than ruining twenty years of friendship with one awkward confession.
Only once did she see something new flash in his eyes—not their usual warmth, but something deeper, uneasy, almost pained. She felt it instantly—they’d always understood each other without words.
“Something wrong?” she asked, setting her book aside.
His lips twitched, like he wanted to say something important, then thought better of it.
“It’s nothing,” he replied, turning sharply toward the window.
Silence settled between them, thick and awkward.
“Right, I should go,” he finally said, standing up.
She didn’t stop him. Just nodded. What was there to say? Back then, neither Lara nor Ethan was free.
***
They’d known each other forever.
At fourteen, they swore to be friends till the end. At eighteen, they laughed at lovesick classmates. At twenty-five, Ethan was her witness at the wedding. At thirty, Lara dragged him drunk out of a pub after his divorce.
Their first meeting? She was seven, he was nine. The neighborhood kids were playing cops and robbers, and she—the smallest—tripped and fell behind. The older boys instantly teased her: “Crybaby!”
Then quiet Ethan punched the ringleader so hard he landed in a puddle.
“Don’t touch her again,” he said, wiping blood from his lip.
They never left each other’s side after that.
The neighbor’s yard, childhood fights, their first cigarette behind the garages—all of it was their shared past. Then school, racing to the tuck shop at break, different universities later, but the same habit of calling each other in the middle of the night to share something important.
They were proper friends. The kind who don’t disappear after first loves, weddings, or even fights.
Lara had a decent, steady husband—Daniel. He never clicked with Ethan. Ethan’s wife was called Olivia. Clever, beautiful, but she only met “Lara, the battle-hardened mate” once—at the wedding. Straight off, she said: “That girl’s not from my world.” So no family friendship, like they’d dreamt as kids.
But they stayed each other’s “person.” The one you call at 3 a.m. with a hushed, “I’m not okay,” knowing they’ll listen. Or show up with a cuppa—or something stronger.
That kind of friendship is priceless.
When Daniel left Lara, taking half the furniture and her belief in “happily ever after,” Ethan was there. Didn’t let her drink alone, sat through her meltdowns, listened to endless, “How did I get it so wrong?”
Daniel left for a young intern. Cliché, but Lara was the last to know.
“You seriously didn’t notice?” her friends gaped.
No. Because on those nights Daniel was “working late,” she was having dinner with Ethan. Laughing at his jokes, complaining about work, feeling like… herself.
Ethan was the first to hear about the breakup. Showed up right after her choked, “He’s gone.”
“I’m so tired of pretending to be happy,” Lara cried, staring out the window.
“I know,” Ethan said.
And she realised—he really did. Always had.
With Olivia, it was different.
She left Ethan abruptly, slamming the door:
“You’ll never love me like you love her!”
He didn’t argue.
When he told Lara, she scoffed:
“That’s rubbish! We’re just friends!”
“Just friends,” he echoed, and the look in his eyes stole her breath.
“She never really knew you,” Lara said, pouring him a third whisky. “The real you.”
“And you? Do you know me?”
She flinched. Remembered scribbling in her diary years ago: *Imagine telling him you love him. Watch him step back. See discomfort in his eyes. Then polite texts once a month. Meetings in groups where you both avoid eye contact.*
She was terrified of losing her childhood best friend. Didn’t want to risk the one constant in her life. Ethan was the only one who truly knew and accepted her—never walked out, even when she was downright unbearable (and let’s just say, she had a temper). Of course she valued that. And she’d do anything for him. Almost anything.
But… friendship isn’t love. What if it didn’t work? What if another intern came along? Then she’d lose him completely. How would she live without him? How do people even *do* that?
*We’re nothing alike,* Lara thought when he argued with a waiter about steak doneness. Ethan could be annoyingly particular.
*I’m not her type,* Ethan figured, watching her roll her eyes at his favourite action film.
Neither noticed how their arguments birthed inside jokes no one else got. How their clashes sparked something their “proper” relationships lacked.
They loved in secret, as if still bound by that childhood vow.
***
The truth came at the airport. Lara was flying to Paris—new job, new chapter. Maybe for good.
“You forgot this,” Ethan said, handing over the scarf she’d left at his flat.
“Keep it,” she replied. “For memories.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something she’d seen a hundred times but never let herself name.
“I don’t want memories,” he said suddenly. “I want *you*.”
Two words. Twenty years of waiting. One life finally making sense.
“If you get on that plane,” he said softly, “I won’t survive it.”
Not *I’ll be upset*. Not *I’ll miss you*. *I won’t survive.*
She smiled—not straight away. First, she let herself recognise that look in his eyes. *Finally.* Then she realised: she was happy.
“Y’know,” she said, “for that, I can miss any flight.”
“So you’re staying?” He pulled her close. “Really?”
On the way home, she thought: *Once, I had everything—a husband, a cosy flat, security. But not the one thing that makes people burn bridges, lose their heads, risk it all… Not love. And without that, nothing else matters.*
