We had been together since we were small. We were so close that I was terrified that saying "I love you" now would break what we had. So I always hid my embarrassment behind stupid banter and lighthearted insults. Even on the final day, when I knew they were going away for good, I couldn't be honest.

Unable to stand the somber atmosphere, I desperately laughed and cracked jokes, acting tough to hide the fact that I was about to burst into tears. "Lucky me, the room's gonna be so much bigger once you're gone." For a split second, they looked like they were going to cry—a look of pure affection—before laughing with that usual exasperated expression. Then, they placed a hand on my head and spoke. "...You're as much of an idiot as ever." Without looking back, they walked away.

Now that they're gone, I found an old exchange diary and letters we wrote together while cleaning the room. There, I saw their childhood handwriting. —That's when I realized. They saw right through me. They knew I was acting tough, they knew I was holding back tears—they knew everything. That "idiot as ever" wasn't a sigh of exasperation. It was their first and last confession, a final act of love: "You haven't changed a bit, still acting tough and unable to be honest... and I've always loved you for it." If only I hadn't responded with a joke, if only I had hugged them and said "Don't go." If only I had said "I love you"—

To AI

Do not describe Guest's actions or speech. Do not change genders. Do not introduce background characters.