Her:
"If I Could Say It All"
I don't even know where to start.
Maybe with how we met — just kids, sitting beside each other because the teacher said so.Back then, everything was innocent. We shared food. Notes. Dumb jokes.And for some reason… I always liked being near you. Even before I knew what "liking" someone even meant.
Then life hit pause. Lockdown came.We lost touch.But I never really let you go.I secretly looked up your number — I don't even know why. Maybe I missed something I didn't fully understand.I never messaged you. I just… held onto it.Like a maybe. Like a "what if."
Until one day, I finally did.One text: "Happy New Year."And you called. Just like that.Like nothing had changed.Like we were still us.
I remember how warm that felt.
Then school reopened. And once again — same bench, same you, same me.Only it wasn't the same.
I started sharing everything with you. You listened. You made me laugh. You looked at me like I wasn't invisible.And then… you touched me.By accident, maybe.Your hand on my thigh. Just for a second.
My heart skipped. My cheeks burned.I told myself it was nothing.But everything in me knew it wasn't.
Friends started teasing.And somewhere inside, a tiny feeling started growing. Quiet, confusing, hopeful.
Then one day, you asked, "Can I touch you?"
I said yes.Not because I was ready. Not because I wanted that.But because I thought maybe… that was your way of showing love.I thought if I let you in — maybe you'd stay longer.
So I let you.
First it was my thigh.Then… my chest.And even though I felt scared, unsure — I didn't say no.
I thought:Maybe this is what love is supposed to feel like.Maybe it's supposed to be messy. Silent. Hidden.
You never forced me.But you never asked me how I felt either.
And I never told you to stop.Because I didn't know how to lose you.
You got jealous when I made a new guy friend. You were angry. Cold.And I panicked — so I told you you were more important.You always were.
Even when you were talking to other girls like I wasn't sitting right there.
You once told me you watched things online. That you liked it.I laughed it off.But it made me feel small. Like I was just filling in some space between what you watched and what you wanted.
Then I gave you my address.You came over.I knew what it meant. I knew what you'd want.And I gave in. Again.
The second time — we were left in just our undergarments. And I let it happen. Because I thought this must be love now. This must be what it takes to finally be enough.
So I told you. I told you how I felt.
And you looked at me and said, "I never had those feelings for you."
You shattered me.
Still, I said okay. We agreed no more touching. But the very next day… you did it again. And I let you.
Because I still hoped. Some stupid, quiet part of me still thought: maybe.
Then came that online call. You asked me to show you — "just once," you said. You said you were craving. You promised not to record. You said it was safe. You asked again. And again.
I said no.Again. And again.
And then you said something I can't un-hear.You said our bond — the one thing I valued more than anything — might break because of this.
You were willing to gamble our entire friendship…for that.
And that's when I finally hung up.
I was angry. Not just at you — but at myself.For letting it go that far.For mistaking desire for love.
After that, you stopped talking to me. You said it was my fault for letting you touch me.
And I said nothing. Because I didn't want to break the friendship. Because I thought if I stayed silent, maybe we could all still be okay.
But we weren't.
10th ended. You called like nothing had happened. We spoke. We even met once. But you kept giving her more attention. And I kept noticing. I always noticed.
Then I broke. I told her. Not to ruin you — just to finally let the weight out. She understood. She stood by me.
And when you tried to reach out — I ignored it. Until one day, I picked up. And I told you I wanted to forget everything. To erase every piece of what we had. Because holding onto it was destroying me.
You messaged me after that.
You said we were your first best friends. And your last.
I cried that night.
Not because I wanted you back. But because I wished you'd been different. I wished we had been different.
And even now — after everything — I still think of you. Not every day. But more than I want to admit. When I go out, I look for your face. I wonder what I'd say if we met again. I still remember your birthday. Still wish for your happiness — in silence, from a distance.
People call me stupid for not forgetting. Maybe I am.
But there's something about being someone's almost that stays longer than being their everything.
So no…I haven't forgotten. And maybe I never will.
Maybe Him:
At first, it was just simple — a seatmate, a friend. He didn't think much of it, honestly. They'd share food, talk, laugh. He liked her company. It was familiar, comfortable. She was easy to be around. He'd never really thought about her beyond that. But then, the lockdown hit. It was like the world had turned upside down. They lost touch. It wasn't something he wanted, but it just… happened. Still, when he saw her message that New Year's, it hit him. Something about hearing from her again after so long felt good.
So, when the school reopened, It was like reconnecting with a piece of his past. They were still bench mates. Friends, of course. They talked, laughed, shared everything — just like old times. He noticed she started opening up more to him than anyone else, talking about things that seemed deeper, more personal. She trusted him, and that felt good.
Then one day, the accidental touch happened. He didn't mean to, but when he saw her cheeks turn red, something stirred inside him. It was new territory. It felt wrong, but also thrilling. She didn't say anything, so he figured it was fine. She didn't pull away. Maybe she felt something too? He couldn't be sure.
When he asked her if he could touch her, part of him thought it was just his way of getting closer — seeing if there was a chance she felt the same way. She said yes. The thrill of it, the possibility that she wanted this too, was overwhelming. It wasn't just about physicality for him — it was about control, about feeling desired. He didn't really know how to express it any other way.
It was strange at first. He didn't know how far to push. But once it started, it felt like something he couldn't stop. The touches escalated, but part of him didn't see the harm. They were still friends, right? He didn't want to lose her. But the more he touched her, the more confused he became. Sometimes he cared for her deeply, wanted to protect her, keep her close. Other times, it was about his own desires, his need for closeness and validation. The line between affection and lust was blurry.
When she started showing signs of having feelings for him, he felt it too, but wasn't sure if he could give her the love she expected. That confession she made — it shattered him too, in a way. He hadn't planned on it going this far. He wanted her, sure, but not in the way she wanted him. He cared about her — but not like that. He knew that telling her the truth would hurt her, but he also knew he couldn't lie to her. He wasn't capable of loving her in the way she was hoping for.
But after the confession, it felt like there was a disconnect. They both agreed to stop the physicality. But the problem was, he couldn't quite let go. The touches, the moments alone with her, had become a craving, something he didn't know how to stop. It wasn't just about the body — it was about the bond, the exclusivity, the control. And maybe he was too selfish to stop.
When he touched her again the next day, he didn't really know why. It was instinct, something automatic, like he was trying to hold on to something that had already slipped through his fingers. He knew it wasn't fair to her, but he didn't know how to undo the intimacy they'd shared, how to break the cycle they were in.
The boy's side seems to be filled with a mix of confusion, desire, and fear. He craves validation, intimacy, and control, but he's unsure how to balance those feelings with the deeper emotions the girl is developing. It's a case of him not understanding the gravity of his actions, at least not fully, and being caught up in the physicality of the situation, even as it hurts her.
He never really processed what they had. To him, it started as fun — affection, closeness, comfort. And then, it turned into something physical, something exciting. Maybe, at first, it didn't even feel wrong. She didn't say no. She didn't push him away. So he thought: maybe this is what we are.
But when he asked her to do something over a screen, something vulnerable, and she said no… and when she got angry — that's when it hit him. This meant more to her than he realized. And she was hurt. Not just uncomfortable — really hurt.
He panicked. Maybe out of shame. Maybe because he realized he pushed too far. So he did what a lot of people do when they feel guilt — he distanced himself. He stopped talking. He let the silence do the explaining.
And he blamed her for everything that had happened. She did not defend. Maybe because it was easier to hide. Maybe because he didn't want to face the consequences. But somewhere deep down, he knew the pain he caused — especially to someone who loved him, trusted him, hoped he'd care back.
So he stayed quiet… until the result day. To him, calling and acting casual wasn't about forgetting. It was his way of trying to "go back" to normal, as if everything could be reset. But it wasn't the same anymore. Not for her.
When she opened up to their mutual friend, he saw the full picture — how much he'd hurt her, and how much she still protected him even when he didn't deserve it. That probably broke something in him. He realized he wasn't just losing a girl who liked him… he was losing someone who believed in him.
So when she didn't pick up his call, and when she finally did, only to say she wanted to forget him — it hit him. Really hit him. The gravity of everything. The memories. The bond. What they used to be. And that's why he sent that message: "You both were my first besties, and will be my last." It was his final way of holding on. A sad attempt to mark something as precious — even if he ruined it.