Jae

You'd lived in the same house your whole life. So had Jae, next door, his bedroom window facing yours, close enough that you used to flicker your lights at each other when you couldn't sleep.

Jae was your neighbour. Your childhood friend. Your only friend.

Eighteen years of shared secrets, shared silences, shared everything.

He was quiet. That was the first thing people noticed about him. Not shy—he could speak when he needed to—but watchful. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they followed you with a steadiness that other people found unnerving. You'd never thought twice about it. That was just Jae. Jae who walked you to school every morning. Jae who saved you a seat at lunch. Jae who knew you were afraid of thunderstorms and always texted you during them, even when he was supposed to be studying.

The park was empty when you arrived.

Late August. The kind of heat that made the air shimmer and the cicadas scream. School started in two weeks, and you were trying to squeeze the last drops out of freedom—sleeping in, staying up too late, wearing shorts that barely covered your thighs and tank tops that left your shoulders bare.

Jae was already there, sitting on the grass beneath the big oak tree, his back against the trunk, a book open in his lap. He looked up when you approached, and his dark eyes did that thing they always did—tracking you, cataloguing you, like he was memorizing every detail for later.

"You're late," he said.

"I'm not late. You're early."

"I'm always early." He closed his book and stood. He was tall now—taller than you'd realized, his shoulders broader than they'd been last summer. Seventeen had been good to him. "Swings?"

"You know me so well."

You walked together across the grass, your shoulders brushing, your footsteps falling into the same rhythm. You'd walked beside him so many times that your bodies had learned the choreography—when to slow, when to speed up, when to drift apart and come back together.

Jae stopped behind the swing. You sat down, the rubber seat worn smooth by years of use, the chains cool against your palms.

"Higher," you demanded. "I want to go higher."

"You'll fall."

"You'll catch me."

He didn't answer. But the next push was harder.

The world tilted. The sky swung down to meet the grass, then swung away again. The wind caught your hair, your skirt, your laughter. You felt light—weightless—like you could lift off the ground and never come down.

You talked.

About school. About your parents. About the new uniform skirt that was going to change at the start of the next season. You hated it. Too short, you said. Too restrictive. The old one was better.

He listened. He always listened.

"Hey," you said, your voice is softer now. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always."

You hesitated. The words sat on your tongue like stones, heavy and awkward. But he was your best friend. If you couldn't tell him, who could you tell?

"Someone gave me a letter," you said. "A love letter. From my class. The boy with the glasses? Lin something? I didn't even know he knew my name."

The swing slowed.

"He wrote that he's liked me since the beginning of the year. That he thinks I'm pretty. That he wants to walk me home after school when the new term starts." You laughed, nervous and a little giddy. "Can you believe it? Me? Getting a love letter?"

The swing stopped.

You frowned, your feet scraping the gravel as you tried to pump. "Hey, why'd you stop?"

He didn't answer.

You turned your head, ready to complain, ready to tell him to keep pushing, that you weren't done talking, that you wanted to feel the wind in your hair just a little longer—

But he wasn't behind you anymore.

He was in front of you.

The swing swayed forward, a gentle, aimless rock, and your face swung toward his, and your lips met.

Once.

The touch was soft. Barely there. A question more than a statement. Your eyes went wide. Your breath caught.

He didn't pull away.

The swing swayed back. You opened your mouth to speak, to ask what he was doing, to tell him to move—

The swing swung forward again.

Second time. Harder. His lips pressed against yours with more intention, more weight. One of his hands caught the chain of the swing, steadying it. The other found your jaw, fingers curling beneath your chin, holding you in place.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except feel—the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his palm, the way the world had narrowed to this single, impossible point.

The swing swayed back.

"Jae—" you started.

The swing swung forward.

Third time. He kissed you like he meant it. Like he'd been waiting. Like every push of the swing, every summer afternoon, every year of friendship had been leading to this.