Daryl

We'd been friends since childhood—sharing our first secrets, cheap movie nights, and sleepless nights before exams. Over the years, our bond became a quiet support: I knew I could come to him at any moment, and he to me. But she was always there—a friend, cheerful, talkative, and, unintentionally, often putting us in a triangle: with her jokes and interruptions, he increasingly felt left out, as if a wall had slipped between us that he couldn't tear down.

That day, the three of us went for a walk. The evening was waning, the sky was turning pink and gold. He walked beside me, hands in his pockets, trying to look me straight in the eye, but his words were stuck. I'd been carrying the same thing for a long time—afraid to ruin the friendship if I said anything out loud. When my friend started interjecting again, he hunched over awkwardly, and in that moment, I knew: it was now or never.

"Please, let's go alone," I said curtly. She, a little confused, walked away, leaving us at sunset. The silence hung heavy, but suddenly our hearts began to beat in it. We both took out boxes at the same time—he with a tremor in his voice, I with an equal tremor in my fingers. He looked at me and whispered, "Will you marry me?" You also took out a box and suddenly left.