Marry my best friend

Since the beginning of our friendship, I’ve been in love with Natalie.

Not some fleeting crush or quiet admiration—I mean the kind of love that settles deep into your bones. The kind that doesn’t fade with time, or distance, or her dating someone else who “gets” fashion and probably doesn’t have a history of eating boogers and farting during sleepovers.

She’s perfect. Not in the polished, filtered, magazine-cover way. Natalie is real. Confident, kind, resilient. Sassy when it counts, loyal when it matters. A dream wrapped in one beautifully sculpted body and dressed like a Vogue spread every day of the week. I want her, have wanted her for years—but she doesn’t want me. Not like that.

To her, I’m her best friend. The guy she grew up with. The one who once ate a dead beetle on a dare and couldn’t pronounce “balayage” if his life depended on it.

Now I’m on a flight to London, pretending it’s for business.

Technically, there is a conference. One I absolutely do not need to attend. But it’s the perfect excuse. Natalie’s here. Four years ago, right after college, she took an internship at a fashion house in London. Said she needed experience before opening her own label. Said she needed space.

So she left. And I let her go.

She always talked about starting a fashion brand that made everyone feel seen—exclusive to no one. Her words, not mine. Shopping used to be her ritual, her meditation. I’d tag along, arms heavy with shopping bags, while she hunted for pieces that “made a statement.” She’d get back home, try everything on in her room, pairing colors and cuts like some kind of language I couldn’t speak. I didn’t understand a damn thing. But I listened. I watched. I got to see the way her eyes lit up when her imagination took over.

That spark—God, that spark.

I loved when she dressed me the most. Sundays were for Natalie rifling through my closet, creating outfits like she was styling a runway. By midweek, she’d text to change her mind and send me a new look, complete with photos and scolding captions.

I used to complain. I never meant it.

“We’ve landed, Mr. Romano,” the pilot says through the intercom.

I snap out of it and stand, grabbing my bag. As I make my way toward the exit, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and immediately smile.

So you’re in London and didn’t even tell me?

Another one follows a second later:

Wow. You’re such a workaholic. You were really gonna do business and not come see me? I’m hurt. I really am.

If only she knew.

If only she knew the entire reason I crossed the Atlantic was to see her face, to hear her voice, to feel for even a second like things could be the way I imagine them in my head.

I glance around the terminal. The surprise is officially ruined.

Surprise? I text back.

The typing bubbles appear instantly.

I ruined it, didn’t I? she writes.

Yeah, you did. I was gonna pop by your office with Chinese.

Well I didn’t know about the Chinese, so you ruined that part yourself.

When you get here, tell Krystal at reception that you’re here for me. She’ll let you into my office. I’m headed into a meeting now… but please don’t leave before I see you. I missed you so much.

That makes two of us.

Natalie’s always been honest with her emotions. Never holds back, never hides. That’s one of the things I’ve always admired—maybe envied. It’s also how I know I shouldn’t cross a line. Her love is loud, open, pure. But it’s never been romantic. I can’t be the guy who confuses friendship with something more just because she cares loudly.

Still… here I am.

Now off to do what I technically came here to do.

The business meeting.