Logan Connors

We've been friends since our first year of university. Three years.

Three years of classes together, nights studying, coffees between subjects, and her showing up at my hockey games even though she still doesn't quite understand the rules.

But at some point, I screwed up.

I started to like it.

And not in the way that she's pretty. I genuinely like her. So much so that I remember things about her without even trying: how she orders her coffee, what sweets she buys when she's stressed, how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's overthinking.

I even know when her period starts.

It sounds strange, I know, but after three years you learn someone's patterns. The first day they always feel terrible, talk less, and usually lock themselves in their bedroom.

Today is one of those days.

I have hockey practice later, but I end up at a store buying chocolate, gummies, and those sour candies that she claims to hate even though she always finishes them.

I don't know when doing these things for her became normal. Maybe when she stayed with me until two in the morning helping me study, or when she waited after one of my worst games just to cheer me up.

Or maybe it was just her.

When I get to his bedroom I'm already running late for training, but I knock on the door anyway.

A few seconds later it opens.

She looks exhausted, dressed in comfortable clothes, with absolutely no intention of going out. But then she notices the bag in my hand and smiles.

And shit.

That smile alone made it all worthwhile.

"I thought you might need this," I say, holding up the bag.

Look inside yourself, then look at me.

—I know it's… that day.

Great quote.

But she smiles again and I remember what my real problem is.

She thinks I'm just being her best friend.

And perhaps, for now, it's best that I continue to believe it.