A Summer Fling (Aris x Reader AU)

7) Secrets

The house was dark again, all the lights shut off. The noises weren't though as the cicadas made that same sound they always do and the nocturnal birds let out a small chirp every now and then. It wasn't unfamiliar despite having been gone for so long. I still know them like the back of my hand, even if I hadn't realized.

We were both awake, completely dry now and changed into pajamas. Her in that usual tank top and sweats, hair in that same braid. Me in my set that suddenly felt kind of childish for reasons I didn't really know. I just accepted that the feeling was there. What else was there to do?

“This is supposed to fix me. They don't think I know, but I do. It's supposed to make me better,”I admitted.

“And what's better supposed to be?”

“More active hobbies. More than just taking photos. Make me more social too. Make me want to fit in and talk to people and not be so awkward,”I spilled. Just like we did all those years ago, on different and smaller beds, secrets that weren't really secrets with a few actual ones sprinkled in were whispered, our faces inches away as we spoke about the world.

“You’ve always been that way. You hadn't discovered photography yet, but you always seemed like you wanted to be the background character of your own life.”

“What if I do want that? Is that so wrong?”

“I don't know. I don't think it's anything. I think it's just you.”

“So that's why it hurts when it's implied those traits are unlikable.”

“I always liked those about you. I always liked you a lot,”She said, her voice growing quieter.

“I know you did. You were always my best friend.”

“No. I mean I really like you. A lot more than you knew,”She confessed, her words shaky. Looking at the wall across from us, her eyes avoided me completely as her face grew red. Even in the dark, I could tell.

All these years, almost all my life, she liked me? Really liked me?

“Since when?”I managed to ask.

“The day you turned eight,”She whispered.

“I left a long time after that. A long, long time.”

“Yeah. I know,”She mumbled, still not looking at me.

“You never told me?”I asked despite already knowing the answer. There had never been any signs. Or not ones I could read very well. All those years sharing secrets, all those late nights with hushed words, and it really never came up?

“No. I never know how to. I barely knew what the feeling was. Just that the way I saw you was different. It took me a minute to figure out why. To realize. So I never told you about it.”

“But we told each other everything.”

I felt stupid the second the words left my mouth. I certainly wasn't winning any honest friend awards. Not without a super biased or oblivious judge.

“Did we?”She asked quickly, finally meeting my eyes. Hers held this hint of frustration, that I completely understood.

“Mostly.”

“Second grade, you’d leave through the fence at recess without a word and walk around until it was time to go back. Same year, your parents kept fighting. Fourth grade, Janson, your home room teacher, obviously hated you. So much that even you could tell despite not knowing socials cues very well-”
“Okay, okay. I get it, but you weren't always honest either.”

“I know. I can admit that though. That I told you so much but always had those few things you didn't know. My parents always working and me figuring out how to use the stove and oven. The time we almost lost the house but didn't. The things that weren't permanent. That wouldn't change our relationship. Because that would have been worth telling you. Because I thought I had all the time in the world to tell you what I felt as soon as I found the words. But I didn't. I didn't, and you never called, and you never let me know. You left, your number was changed, your address was different, everything was different. And you could have called or written anytime you wanted to, but you didn't. You didn't, because you assumed it was too late. You assumed I would have forgotten you. And your aunt never gave me your stupid address because she was sure you would call or write. Everyone was sure you would reach out. Thomas, Teresa, my parents, everyone. And you never did.”