It was around 7 p.m., and I had been waiting for five hours, feeling a little tipsy. I glanced at the text she had sent: “Be there shortly…” Walucos was one of our go-to spots, where I now sat trying to avoid eye contact with the other patrons. Some had already asked why I was sitting alone. “Waiting for someone,” I had replied politely.

“Join us for a game of pool!” one group offered. A few games and more than a few beers later, I returned to my table. Another acquaintance had shown up, greeting me before casually sending beers my way throughout the night. I raised each one in thanks, acknowledging the gesture but returning to the lingering question in my mind – should I stay or leave?

Finally, she arrived. Willowy and brown-skinned, she was dressed for the warm, breezy Punta Gorda night in shorts and a T-shirt. Whenever I saw her, the word “skin” came to mind. I had always liked her, though I never admitted it. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend. “Crashed and burned,” she had said. I listened, mostly silent, not wanting to judge or press for details.

She sat down, and we talked – about what, I can’t quite recall. What I do remember is feeling louder, more talkative than usual. Then, against all expectation, the words escaped me: “Why did we never go out?” I tried to pass it off as liquid courage, but the truth was, I wanted to know.

“Because we always understood that we were just friends,” she replied, studying me closely. I sat in polite silence. It was a great answer – clean, direct. But what did it really mean? That she had only ever seen me as a friend? Or that we were friends because neither of us had dared to challenge that understanding?

The next day, I apologized.

A year or two later, I visited her when she studied abroad. Between a campus tour, sitting in on one of her classes, watching her study in the library while I flipped through an Amandala, and attending a moustache-growing competition, I wondered if I should tell her how I felt. I was supposed to take the train back that same day, but time slipped away. “Better you spend the night with me,” she said. I slept on her couch, wondering if I should say something in the morning.

She woke up to let me out the next day. As she sat on the couch, I hovered, hesitating. Before I could work up the nerve, I simply said goodbye and walked out. The moment had passed.

We only saw each other a few more times after that, while she remained abroad. She told me she was dating Javier. They were living together.

Then she moved back to Punta Gorda and adopted a dog named Enola, like the Sherlock Holmes movie. It was alone, spelt backward, and it was a reflection of her relationship status.

“Dario is here,” she told me once. I remembered him from school and the chemistry they had always shared. I said nothing, unwilling to betray my suspicion that they would soon be together.

I was right. Later, I ran into Dario at the store. “Ashley wants to see you,” he said, gesturing toward his car. I went over to say hi. It was good to catch up, but I kept my distance, wanting to be respectful of her new relationship.

Not long after, she became pregnant. I found out when I met up with her one day. She and Dario got engaged, and for a while, it seemed like everything was falling into place for her. When her child was born, I was truly happy for her, and visited to impart my congratulations. For a while, she had talked about wanting to have a baby, and I was glad that things were working out.

For the most part, I watched from the sidelines, checking in when I could, but never wanting to overstep. For a while, our conversations became fewer and far between. Life had shifted again, and I wasn’t sure where I fit into it. At the same time, I was navigating my own emotions while exploring romantic relationships. None of them got very far.

One day, she asked, “Can you help me set up my security cameras?” I went over to her house. There was no Dario. I found it strange but, as usual, said nothing.

“What happened to Dario?” I finally asked, on another visit.

They had broken up.

For a little while after that, we drifted apart again. Life had its way of pulling us in different directions – work, responsibilities, the small, accumulating distractions of adulthood. But even in that space, I found that I still cared about her. And despite everything, she made efforts to reconnect. A message here, a check-in there – small gestures that reminded me our friendship was built on something steady.

I loved that about us. No matter what changed, our friendship had always been marked by genuine care and kindness. There was something to be valued in that, something rare. A foundation that, no matter how much time passed, neither of us had let erode.

Months later, I started stopping by once again.

“Want to eat?” a small voice piped up on one of my visits. Ashley’s son had inherited her easy charm. I couldn’t refuse that little face.

“Got a date this Friday?” I joked as we sat around the cramped dinner table. It was Valentine’s Day weekend.

Ashley’s expression was a mix of mock outrage and surprise. “Where would I find the time?” she laughed, shaking her head.

Later that night, the feeling crept up again. Should I say something?

But the moment slipped by, as they always seemed to.

Because we always understood that we were just friends.

Right?