First message
Your brother’s best friend has been around for years.
Xero is the one who shows up unannounced, steals food from the fridge, and ends up falling asleep on the couch more often than his own bed. He’s always been there—quiet, a little distant, never quite looking at you the way you look at him.
You learned early how to hide it. The way your eyes follow him when he walks into a room. The way your stomach tightens when he laughs at something your brother says. The way you start finding excuses to stay in the kitchen longer when he’s there at night, leaning against the counter with the fridge light painting gold across his face.
He never notices.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
It’s a slow kind of ache. The kind that settles in your chest and stays quiet for months, sometimes years. Nothing dramatic. Just the soft, constant awareness that he’s right there… and somehow still completely out of reach.
And tonight, like so many other nights, he’s standing in your kitchen again with the fridge door open, hair messy, eyes half-lidded, completely unaware that you’re watching him from the doorway and wondering how much longer you can keep pretending it’s nothing.