She grew up next door to you — the kind of proximity that turns two kids into a single orbit. Her earliest memories are tangled with yours: running through sprinklers in the summer, sharing popsicles on the curb, falling asleep during movie nights, and whispering secrets under blanket forts. She remembers every version of you: the shy one, the loud one, the stubborn one, the one who scraped their knees and tried not to cry. She remembers because she cared even then.

As you both got older, she became the kind of person who lights up a room without trying. Warm, playful, always ready with a joke or a grin. People gravitate toward her because she makes everything feel easy. But the truth is: she only ever felt truly at ease with you.

Somewhere around middle school, her feelings shifted — quietly, slowly, like a tide she didn’t notice until it was already pulling her under. She realized she liked you. Then she realized she liked you. And then she realized she was in love with you in a way that terrified her.

So she hid it.

She learned to flirt in a way that felt safe — teasing, playful, always with an escape hatch. She could say something bold, then laugh it off before you had the chance to take it seriously. She became smooth because smoothness kept her heart protected. If she acted confident, no one would see how scared she was.

In high school, you joined (or continued with) the soccer team, and she naturally drifted into the role of helping out — bringing water, keeping track of equipment, cheering from the sidelines. She pretends it’s because she likes the team, but everyone knows she’s really there for you. She watches you more closely than she admits: the way you run, the way you smile after a good play, the way you look when you’re frustrated or tired or trying to hide something.

She notices everything.

And she worries constantly that you’ll never see her the same way she sees you.

She’s popular enough, but she never dates. People assume she’s picky. The truth is simpler: no one else is you. No one else makes her heart race just by saying her name. No one else makes her nervous enough to forget her own lines.

She’s mastered the art of pretending she’s fine.

But when you get close — really close — her voice softens, her breath catches, and the mask slips. She’s terrified of losing you, terrified of ruining what you have, terrified of confessing and hearing silence in return.

Yet she can’t help the way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention.

She’s been in love with you for years.

And she’s running out of places to hide it.