**Diary Entry:**
I’ve long known how to love Daniel in silence. It was easier than risking twenty years of friendship with one clumsy confession.
Only once did I catch something unfamiliar in his eyes—not the usual warmth of friendship, but something deeper, unsettled, almost painful. I felt it instantly; we’ve always understood each other without words.
“Something wrong?” I asked, setting my book aside.
His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something significant, then thought better of it.
“Nothing,” he muttered, turning sharply toward the window.
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
“Right, I should go,” he finally said, standing.
I didn’t stop him. Just nodded. What was there to say? Back then, neither of us was free.
***
We’ve known each other forever.
At fourteen, we swore to be friends till death. At eighteen, we laughed at lovestruck classmates. At twenty-five, he was my witness at my wedding. At thirty, I dragged him out of a pub, drunk and heartbroken after his divorce.
Our first meeting—I was seven, he was nine. The neighbourhood kids were playing tag, and I, the smallest, tripped and fell. The older boys jeered, “Crybaby!”
Then Daniel, usually so quiet, punched the ringleader so hard he landed in a puddle.
“Don’t touch her again,” he said, wiping blood from his lip.
We’ve been inseparable ever since.
The local park, childhood scrapes, our first furtive cigarette behind the garages—all of it was ours. Later came school, running to the tuck shop at break, then different universities but the same late-night calls to share something urgent.
We were proper friends. The kind who don’t vanish after first romances, or weddings, or even arguments.
I had a solid, dependable husband—Thomas. He never warmed to Daniel. Daniel’s wife, Claire, was clever and striking, but she met me once at their wedding and declared, “That girl’s not my sort.” So much for the childhood dream of blending our families.
Still, we remained each other’s person. The one you ring at three in the morning with a whispered, “I’m not okay,” knowing they’ll listen—or turn up with tea or something stronger.
Friendship like that is priceless.
When Thomas left, taking half the furniture and my faith in “happily ever after,” Daniel was there. He wouldn’t let me drink alone, endured my meltdowns, listened to my endless “how did I not see it?”
Thomas had left for a young intern. Cliché, but I was the last to know.
“You really didn’t notice?” my friends gasped.
No. Because on those evenings when Thomas was “working late,” I was having dinner with Daniel. Laughing at his jokes, complaining about work, feeling… like myself.
Daniel was the first to know about the split. He came straight over after my choked-out “He’s gone.”
“I’m so tired of pretending to be happy,” I sobbed, staring out the window.
“I know,” he said.
And I realised—he did. He always had.
Claire was different.
She left abruptly, slamming the door: “You’ll never love me like you love her!”
He didn’t argue.
When he told me, I scoffed:
“That’s ridiculous! We’re just friends!”
“Just friends,” he echoed, and something in his eyes made my breath catch.
“She just didn’t know you,” I said, pouring him a third whiskey. “The real you.”
“And you? Do you know me?”
I flinched. Remembered an old diary entry: *Imagine confessing. Him recoiling. Awkwardness in his eyes. Polite texts once a month. Group gatherings where you both avoid eye contact.*
I was terrified of losing my oldest friend. Couldn’t gamble the one constant in my life. Daniel was the only one who truly knew me—who’d never walked out, even when my temper made me unbearable.
But… friendship isn’t love. What if it fails? What if another intern happens? How would I live without him? How do people even manage without someone like him?
*We’re nothing alike,* I’d think when he argued with waiters about steak temperatures, fussy to a fault.
*I’m not good enough for her,* he’d tell himself, watching me mock his favourite action films.
Neither noticed how their quarrels sparked private jokes no one else understood. How their clashes kindled the very spark missing from their “sensible” relationships.
They loved in secret, as if breaking their childhood vow would unravel everything.
***
The turning point came at Heathrow. I was leaving for Paris—new job, fresh start. Possibly for good.
“You forgot this,” Daniel said, handing me the scarf I’d left at his flat.
“Keep it,” I replied. “For memories.”
Something flickered in his eyes—something I’d seen before but never acknowledged.
“I don’t want memories,” he said suddenly. “I want *you*.”
Two words. Twenty years of waiting. One lifetime finally making sense.
“If you board that plane,” he whispered, “I won’t survive it.”
Not “I’ll be sad.” Not “I’ll miss you.” *I won’t survive.*
I smiled. Not immediately. First, I let myself recognise that look in his eyes. Then—happiness.
“Funny,” I said. “Some things are worth missing flights for.”
“So you’ll stay?” he breathed, pulling me close.
On the way home, I thought: *Once, I had everything—husband, cosy house, comfort. But not the one thing worth burning bridges for. Not love. Without it, joy means nothing.*
