There are friendships that grow with you, and friendships that expose you.

Coco is both.

We grew up in parallel — same schools, same neighbourhood, same adolescence — yet the emotional architecture between us has always been more complicated than our geography suggested. With her, nothing was ever casual. Even silence carried weight.

I. The First Imbalance

She confessed first — at the end of high school, when I was leaving the country. I told her I saw her “just as a friend,” but the truth is simpler: I was terrified.

Terrified of naming the intensity, terrified of its consequences, terrified of losing control.

So I lied. Not maliciously — but defensively, instinctively, the way young people lie when they do not know what to do with tenderness.

II. Years of Orbiting

We drifted through our twenties like two planets on different trajectories but with the same gravitational pull. We saw each other only in fragments — holidays, short reunions, the occasional message — but each encounter recalibrated something inside me.

With Rachel, I never felt the need to “prove” myself. But with Coco, I could sense an urge — to become a better version, to justify myself, to present a coherent self who deserved her attention.

Some part of me wanted to control the dynamic, or maybe just control the narrative of who I was becoming.

And perhaps she felt that too.

III. When I Finally Spoke

Years later — in London, after building a career, after establishing some emotional independence — I found the courage to confess back.

Not because I wanted a particular outcome, but because the imbalance needed to be corrected. I couldn’t step into the next decade of my life while still carrying that unspoken thread.

I said it simply, honestly: out of respect for her, and out of respect for myself.

There was no dramatic ending, no clear definition of what we were afterward, but something became even between us.

That mattered more than anything else.

IV. The Fear, the Bravery, and the Projection

What she evokes in me has never been neutral.

She is one of the few people who can make me feel fear — not fear of harm, but fear of being seen.

Around her, my reflex is to refine myself: to speak more carefully, to think more clearly, to show her a version of me that stands upright.

And yet, she is also tied to my bravery. Because facing her meant facing everything I had postponed:

the desire to be chosen

the fear of vulnerability

the contradictions I hide from myself

the tenderness I rarely admit I want

Part of what I feel toward her is not entirely about her. It’s about the unfinished versions of myself that resurfaced whenever she appeared.

So yes — I projected. Years of unresolved emotion, abandoned idealism, self-doubt, longing, the adolescent parts of me I never integrated.

She held these shadows without knowing and without demanding anything back.

That’s why this connection feels mythic, not ordinary. She is woven into my inner architecture, whether or not we name it.

V. The Complexity That Never Needed Simplifying

Our friendship is a field of unnecessary complications — unspoken expectations, defensive distance, occasional intensity, and the fear of “too much.”

But beneath all that, there is something profoundly stable: we recognise each other.

Even after long gaps, we reconnect without needing to rebuild trust. There is no need to dramatise, no need to justify our choices, no need to impress or align.

We simply continue.

A friendship that has outgrown definition, urgency, and explanation.

VI. A Gentle Conclusion

I don’t know what shape this connection will take in five or ten years. But I know this:

She is part of my fear, part of my bravery, and part of the reason I grew up.

Not because she asked, but because some people are placed in your life to make sure your heart does not remain unfinished.

Coco is one of those people.

And that is enough.