For years, Lucy had loved Oliver in silence. It was easier than risking twenty years of friendship with one clumsy confession.
Only once had she seen something unfamiliar in his eyes—not their usual warmth, but something deeper, uneasy, almost painful. Lucy felt it instantly—they had always understood each other without words.
“Something wrong?” she asked, setting her book aside.
His lips twitched as if he wanted to say something important, but then he changed his mind.
“Nothing,” he replied, sharply turning toward the window.
Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“Right, I should go,” he finally said, standing.
She didn’t stop him. Just nodded. What was there even to say? Back then, neither Lucy nor Oliver had been free.
***
They had known each other forever.
At fourteen, they swore to be friends until death. At eighteen, they laughed at lovestruck classmates. At twenty-five, Oliver stood as her witness at the wedding. At thirty, Lucy carried him home drunk after his divorce.
Their first meeting—she was seven, he was nine. The neighbourhood kids were playing tag, and Lucy, the smallest, tripped and fell. The older boys jeered, “Crybaby!”
Then Oliver, usually quiet, punched the ringleader so hard he landed in a puddle.
“Don’t touch her again,” he said, wiping blood from his lip.
After that, they were inseparable.
Neighbourhood scrapes, secret cigarettes behind the garages—it all belonged to them. School, rushing to the canteen at break, then different universities but the same habit of calling each other late at night to share something important.
They were real friends—the kind who don’t vanish after first loves, weddings, or fights.
Lucy had a steady, dependable husband—Thomas. He and Oliver never clicked. Oliver’s wife, Victoria, was beautiful, clever, but saw Lucy exactly once—at the wedding. “She’s not my kind,” Victoria had said. So the dream of family friendships never happened.
Instead, they stayed each other’s person — the one you call at 3 AM saying, “I’m falling apart,” knowing they’ll listen. The one who shows up with tea or something stronger.
That kind of friendship is priceless.
When Thomas left Lucy, taking half the furniture and her belief in “happily ever after,” Oliver was there. Stopped her from drinking alone, endured her meltdowns, listened to endless “how could I be so blind?”
Thomas left for a young intern. Cliché, but Lucy was the last to know.
“Didn’t you notice?” her friends asked.
No. Because on nights Thomas was “working late,” she was having dinner with Oliver. Laughing at his jokes, complaining about work, feeling like herself.
Oliver was the first to hear about the split. He came straight over after her choked, “He’s gone.”
“I’m so tired of pretending to be fine,” Lucy sobbed, staring out the window.
“I know,” Oliver replied.
And she realised—he really did. He always had.
Victoria was different.
She left Oliver abruptly, slamming the door: “You’ll never love me like you love her!”
He didn’t argue.
When he told Lucy, she scoffed, “What rubbish? We’re just mates!”
“Just mates,” he repeated, and his eyes held something that stole her breath.
“She just never knew the real you,” Lucy said, pouring his third whiskey.
“And you? Do you know me?”
She flinched. Remembered scribbling in her journal once: *Imagine telling him. Then he steps back. Awkwardness in his eyes. Polite texts once a month. Avoiding eye contact in groups.*
She was terrified of losing her childhood friend. Couldn’t risk the one person who truly knew her—who never walked out, even when she was unbearable. Lucy valued that. Would do anything for him. Almost anything.
But friendship isn’t love. What if it failed? Another intern situation? Losing him entirely? How would she live? How did people even manage without someone like him?
*We’re nothing alike*, she thought, watching him argue with the waiter about steak doneness. He could be absurdly particular.
*I’m not good enough for her*, Oliver thought, seeingher roll her eyes at his favourite action film.
Neither noticed how their debates sparked private jokes no one else got. How their clashes kindled the very spark missing from their “proper” relationships.
They loved in secret, as if afraid to break an old childhood vow.
***
The moment came at Heathrow. Lucy was leaving for Prague—new job, new life. Maybe for good.
“You forgot this,” Oliver said, holding out the scarf she’d left at his flat.
“Keep it,” she replied. “For luck.”
Something flashed in his eyes—something she’d seen before but never acknowledged.
“I don’t want luck,” he said suddenly. “I want you.”
Two words. Twenty years of waiting. One life finally making sense.
“If you fly now,” he said softly, “it’ll destroy me.”
Not “I’ll be sad.” Not “it’ll hurt.” *Destroy me.*
She smiled—not immediately. First, she let herself understand his expression. Then, she realised—she was happy.
“Funny,” she said. “Words like that are worth missing any flight for.”
“So you’re staying?” He pulled her close. “Really?”
On the way home, she thought: *Once, I had everything—husband, home, comfort. But not the one thing worth burning bridges for, worth losing everything for. Not love. And without that, nothing else matters.*
