Outfit Check

I helped her pick the outfit. She wore it on a date with someone else.

Her name was Maddie. My best friend, my neighbour, my "it's complicated" for two years. We never kissed. We just did everything else. Watched films with her feet in my lap. Shared Sunday breakfasts. Fell asleep on FaceTime.

I always thought we had time. That the moment would show up, like a bus.

Then she texted, "Okay, I have a date Friday, and I need your honest opinion on outfits." Followed by four photos, mirror selfies, her hair in a claw clip.

I stared at my screen. I could've said something right then. Anything. "Don't go." "Pick me." "I've been in love with you since we were seventeen."

Instead, I typed, "The green one. Obviously."

She sent back a heart. "You always know."

I did know. I knew the green made her eyes look like summer. I knew she hated her left side in photos. I knew she hummed when she was nervous.

Friday night, she sent me a story from the restaurant. A glass of wine, a candle, and the tiny corner of a stranger's hand.

At 11:40, she texted, "Home safe. He's nice. But he's not you."

I sat up so fast I dropped my phone.

Then she added, "...he's not a good listener like you. Anyway, night!"

I read it nine times.

She said "you."

I'm still deciding what she meant.