By Ishani Chowdhury
I like you.
I like your smile too.
The way you giggle,
like a little boy when you laugh.
The way you’re so patient with me,
no matter what.
The way you so innocently say,
“You looked pretty today.”
The way you’re my constant hype man,
calling yourself my no. 1 singing fan.
The way you always give me a bite
of your food, with no spite,
or finish what’s left on my plate
without a single complaint.
The way you’ll drop me home, no protest,
treating me like a passenger princess.
The way you’re the first to say sorry,
right before I finish typing my own apology.
The way you go around telling everybody,
“She’s my best friend,” so very proudly.
And I’m incredibly lucky to have you
as my best friend too.
But today, when I stood
behind your chair,
you looked up smiling,
like you knew I was there.
You lifted your hands
and cupped my cheeks,
and something inside me
skipped a beat.
So yeah, I was a bit confused —
by that fleeting feeling that left me amused.
But then I see you be this way,
in the purest sense,
with everyone else.
And the flicker’s gone.
The lights come back on.
I’m not a hopeless romantic.
This is not something unrequited.
I like you.
So much. It’s true.
But only as a best friend.
I really do.