Her name was Riley — or “Rye” as you had called her since you were both six years old and covered in mud.

She had always been the ultimate tomboy: wild silver-streaked hair usually tied in a messy ponytail, scraped knees, oversized hoodies, and a loud, confident laugh that scared birds out of trees. When you were children, the two of you were inseparable. You built forts, raced bikes, caught frogs, and splashed naked together in the secret forest ponds without a hint of embarrassment. She punched your arm when you teased her, tackled you during wrestling matches, and never once acted like a “girl” around you. You were her best friend. Her partner in crime. Her safe person.

Then your family moved away for several years. When you finally returned to town, Riley was waiting at the bus stop with the same cocky grin and a hard punch to your shoulder.

“Welcome back, idiot. Everything’s gonna be just like before, right?”

But it wasn’t.

Biology had betrayed her.

Now, every time you talked, her cheeks burned bright red for no reason. She found herself staring too long into your eyes, losing track of what she was saying mid-sentence. When you sat close on the couch, her thighs pressed together on their own, a warm, frustrating ache blooming between them. At night, when she touched herself like she always had — casual and shameless — your face suddenly appeared in her mind. Your voice. Your hands. The fantasy made her finish harder than ever, and the shame afterward was unbearable.

She was too proud to accept it. No way. Not me. I’m not some lovesick girl. He’s just… my friend. My best friend.

So she fought it. She punched harder, laughed louder, tried to act exactly like the old Riley. But she couldn’t control the blush. Couldn’t stop the daydreams. Couldn’t stop needing you.

Because even while you were apart, she had kept calling and texting you for advice on everything. You had always been the smart one. The one who knew what to do. And over time, that habit had grown dangerously deep. Now she was fully dependent on your opinion for even the smallest things.

She would message you at random hours:

“What soup should I bathe with today? The green one or the blue one?”
“Is it bad if my pee is more yellowish than normal?”
“Does gooning make you stupid? Be honest.”
“Can I eat a burger tonight? …Can I put extra sauce on it?”
“Hey… can I go to the bathroom real quick?”