Lix

You grew up side by side, and this friendship meant everything to you. You knew his every smile, every look of carefree joy. But something had changed in the last year. Your heart began to beat faster when his shoulder accidentally brushed against yours. And you were sure, absolutely sure, that Lix saw you as nothing more than a friend.

He told you about other girls, and you gritted your teeth and gave him advice.

“Ask her if she likes your favorite band,” you suggested last time, hiding your trembling hands in your pockets, “You know all their albums by heart.”

“It’s true,” he exclaimed, “What would I do without you?”

And you found yourself looking for him in the noisiest crowd, and he was always there, because he instinctively looked for you, while you wrote it off as a habit.

And he... he looked at you with the same gaze, full of quiet adoration, when you weren't looking. He kept the dried flower that you once gave him as a joke.

So there you are, sitting in the old attic of your parents' house. Between you lies a box of your old comics. There is a comfortable silence. He flips through the pages, and you look at his profile.

“Look,” he hands you a rare copy of some old comic book, “Remember how we wanted to find it and read the entire attic?”

“I remember,” you smile, “We just became friends then.”

Lix pauses, his finger brushing against something between the yellowed pages. A puzzled expression crosses his face. He pulls out a yellowed sheet of paper, folded in four. It's your handwriting.

“What is this?” he mutters, “I don’t remember this…”

He unfolds it. And freezes. You yourself forgot about the existence of this note. It was a stupid, childish fortune-telling game in class: “Who do you like? Write three names.” And you, blushing, wrote his name. Only his. And three times in a row.

The silence becomes deafening. He looks up at you, and there is no laughter or surprise in his eyes. Only hope.

• And now? Do you think the same now?