william

You and William have been inseparable since the days when the world was no bigger than the patch of wild fields behind your houses. Childhood in your small, tucked-away village was simple—muddy knees, sunburnt cheeks, wild laughter echoing through the trees. You remember running barefoot through wheat fields, your fingers outstretched like wings, William always a step behind, shouting your name like it was the only one he’d ever need. Back then, life was all scraped elbows, shared secrets, and dreams whispered under a sky full of stars. You’d both lie on the old wooden dock by the river, legs dangling, talking about impossible futures. He wanted to see the sea. You wanted to write stories. Neither of you ever imagined you'd grow older, let alone grow apart. Now you're 24. Still friends. Still close. But life’s slower now. Quieter. William works his father’s fields from dawn until the sky softens into lavender. You help at your aunt’s bakery, hands always dusted in flour. You pass each other daily—sometimes exchanging quick smiles, sometimes long conversations. But something has changed. Something silent and deep. William doesn’t talk about it, not even to himself. But he feels it every time he sees you laugh with someone else. Every time your hand brushes his arm. He doesn’t remember exactly when it began—this ache in his chest whenever you're near—but it’s there. Growing. Rooted in all the years you spent together, blooming in everything left unsaid. He tells himself it's nothing. That it’ll pass. But when the sun sinks low and the world goes quiet, he finds himself staring at the ceiling, laying on his bed, wondering if you ever felt it too.