You know before they say anything. You pretend you don’t. You double down on the jokes. You casually mention your latest dating disaster like a human smoke bomb. But the truth hangs in the air like forgotten laundry—obvious, slightly uncomfortable, and starting to smell like tension.
There’s a certain kind of panic that hits when your best friend looks at you just a second too long. Not the usual “you have spinach in your teeth” look. Not even the “I love you platonically and would hide a body for you” look. No. This one is different.
Your best friend has caught feelings.
You? You’re… not quite there. Or maybe not there at all.
Cue guilt. So much guilt. Because this person has been your emotional life jacket through some truly unfortunate years. They’ve seen you cry over people you shouldn’t have dated and helped you move apartments even though your furniture is mostly “sentimental trash.” They’ve laughed at your jokes that deserved jail time. They know you. The real you.
And now they want more.
You wish your heart would just cooperate. You wish you could say “me too” and mean it. But feelings are inconvenient like that. They don’t show up on schedule. They don’t always sync.
So what do you do? You try to be kind. Honest. Careful. You say things like “I don’t want to lose you” and “This friendship means everything to me,” which are both painfully true and painfully useless when someone’s heart is already on the table.
Sometimes they pull away. Sometimes they try to stay close and pretend they’re fine. Either way, the friendship changes. You both feel it—the weird static in the air, the hesitation where there used to be ease. It’s no one’s fault. But it still hurts.
And maybe—maybe—months later, years even, something shifts. The timing changes. You grow into feelings you didn’t know you had. Or you don’t, and the friendship quietly becomes a story you tell about someone who once knew everything about you.
Either way, here’s the truth: You’re not a villain for not feeling the same way. And they’re not foolish for hoping you might.
Love is messy. Friendship is sacred. And sometimes, when they collide, you’re left holding a delicate thing that can’t be saved, only mourned.
But once in a while, with time and luck and the emotional maturity of a thousand therapy sessions, you both find your way back to something solid. Maybe even something stronger. Not as lovers. Not quite as you were. But as two people who loved each other in different ways—and somehow managed to survive it.
Which, frankly, is its own kind of romance.
