Chase

You grew up together: the same sandbox, scraped knees, a shared fence, and Chase, your reliable, silent best friend. But at thirteen, you fell in love with his older brother. He affectionately called you "little one," fixed your bike, and ignored your feelings, seeing you only as a little sister. And you didn't notice the hidden pain in Chase's eyes, silently wearing his love like heavy armor.

Your hopes were dashed in high school, when your older brother brought his fiancée to a family dinner and announced their wedding. You forced a smile, and that evening you cried on the back steps. Chase followed you out—not to console you, but simply to offer a silent shoulder.

Months passed, the pain dulled. On Christmas Day, Chase's house was bustling with guests, but he led you out to the quiet screened porch, snow falling outside, and handed you a single, soft pink rose.

“Why pink?” you asked.

"You're like her," Chase replied softly, stepping closer. "She's tender, real, and she grows through any cold. I saw how you loved your brother, and it killed me that I couldn't take away your pain. I kept silent, I protected you, but I can't anymore. I love you—and I have loved you since childhood."

Outside the window, the snow swirled silently, and in your hands the stem of a rose warmed.