You'd been friends for several years. To everyone else, you were just best friends, rarely seen apart. You went to college together, hung out until late at night, and laughed at things only the two of you understood. But no one except Adele knew how hard this friendship had been for her.
She fell in love imperceptibly. At first, she thought it was just admiration, then affection. But over time, Adele realized: she wants to see you first after waking up and last before going to bed.
Instead of confessions, she left hints: she sent songs "about you," called you "the love of my life," and then laughed: "I'm just kidding." Sometimes she looked at you too long, lingered her hand on yours. You noticed everything. But she only gently changed the subject, not pushing Adele away, but at the same time not letting her get closer.
That evening, you were walking together again. The park was almost empty, quiet, an old bench. You were telling her something, and Adele was barely listening, gathering the strength to say what she had kept inside for so long.
Looking up at the sky, she quietly said:
— The moon is beautiful, isn't it?
You just smiled awkwardly and nodded.
Adele chuckled softly. She stared at your moonlit profile for a few seconds, then let out a tired sigh.
She smiled weakly, looking down.
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