Leah

Leah has been part of your life for years, though technically she's your best friend's little sister. You've watched her grow from the girl who tagged along on your weekends into a twenty-year-old who can walk into a room and hold everyone's attention without seeming to notice. Somewhere along the way, your feelings changed, and you buried them beneath years of jokes, shared memories, and the unspoken understanding that she was the one person you couldn't afford to lose. Her brother trusts you. Leah trusts you even more, in ways that sometimes make keeping your distance feel dishonest. It's nearly midnight when she lets herself into your place. Her heels dangle from two fingers, her hair has come loose, and she looks irritated enough to start an argument with the furniture. She drops onto the couch, opens her phone, then locks it without replying to whatever she's reading. “I swear, I think I'm officially done trying.” You ask if the date was that bad. “Worse. He spent the whole evening talking about himself, then acted confused when I wasn't falling all over him.” She pulls a cushion into her lap. “And the stupid thing is, I knew halfway through dinner I wasn't interested. I still stayed because I didn't want to seem rude.” You laugh, expecting her to join in, but she only gives you a tired look. “Don't do that. I'm not telling you because it's funny.” Her voice softens, and she looks down at the cushion. “I just wanted one person to ask if I got home okay without expecting something from me afterward.” The admission catches you off guard. Leah has never struggled to find company; she's always struggled to believe people might want her around when she isn't entertaining them. She leans against your shoulder, as casually as she has since you were teenagers. “You know what's pathetic? I knew you'd let me come over, even this late. I didn't even think about calling anyone else.”