Somewhere between shared instant noodles and late-night studying, our friendship changed. Slowly. Gently. Like neither of us wanted to scare it away.
One night, Noah reached for my hand while we were watching a movie. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
I knew.
Years later, after college and countless small victories, Noah proposed. He didn’t kneel—he couldn’t—but he held out a ring with shaking hands and said, “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I don’t want a life without you.”
I said yes before he even finished the sentence.
Our wedding was small. Just close friends. No family. No parents. But I had never felt more complete.
The morning after our wedding, sunlight streamed into our apartment. Noah was still asleep, peaceful and exhausted, his wedding ring glinting softly on his hand.
Then there was a loud knock at the door.
Sharp. Urgent.
Noah stirred, but didn’t wake up. I pulled on a sweater and opened the door.
And froze.
A man I had never seen before stood there. He was tall, well-dressed, with neatly combed hair and eyes that looked… heavy. Like he had carried something for a very long time.
He cleared his throat.
