Saturday arrived with golden afternoon light spilling through your curtains. The world outside felt warmer than usual, like it somehow knew tonight would be special.
Your room was clean — cleaner than it had been in weeks. Blankets fluffed. Snacks prepared. Movie queue ready.
They were coming over for movie night.
Just like old times.
But nothing felt old anymore.
At exactly 6 p.m., your doorbell rang. You opened it to find both of them standing side by side. Your best friend wore a loose hoodie, holding a large bag of chips under one arm and a stack of DVDs in the other.
"I brought the classics," they declared proudly. "We're watching everything — from horror to rom-coms to that weird animated film you used to cry over."
Beside them, your quiet friend held a small cake box from your favorite bakery. "And dessert."
You grinned. "You two are overdoing it."
Your best friend winked. "Pampering, remember? No breaks."
The three of you settled into the living room — pillows scattered, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your lap, and laughter filling the space as the first movie played. For a while, everything felt like it used to: simple, warm, easy.
But as the second movie started — an old romantic comedy you all used to mock in middle school — the atmosphere shifted.
You sat between them, their shoulders brushing yours. Your best friend stretched, their arm casually dropping behind your back. You felt it — that electric tension, a pulse under your skin.
Your quiet friend shifted slightly closer, resting their elbow just barely against yours, like they didn't want to intrude but couldn't resist the closeness.
Your heart thudded in your chest.
On screen, the main characters leaned in for a kiss. In your living room, silence fell — not because of the movie, but because of what wasn't being said.
Then — click.
The screen went black.
The room darkened. The soft hum of appliances cut off. A sudden blackout.
"What the—?" Your best friend sat up.
"The whole street just lost power," your quiet friend said, already peeking through the curtains.
You blinked. "Seriously? Now?"
"Well," your best friend grinned in the dark, "looks like the universe wants a different kind of movie tonight."
You laughed, tension easing a bit as you grabbed your phone for light. The three of you lit candles, placing them around the room until it glowed with a soft, amber warmth.
It was strangely intimate.
And strangely quiet.
Your best friend was the first to speak again. "Remember when the power went out in fourth grade? You cried because your nightlight turned off."
You groaned. "I was a kid!"
"You made me hold your hand the whole night," they teased.
"You didn't complain," you countered.
They chuckled. "Of course not. I still wouldn't."
You paused, surprised at the way their voice softened.
Your quiet friend spoke up then, gaze focused on the flickering candlelight. "That night, you also asked if we'd stay friends forever. You were worried everything would change once we got older."
You looked down. "And it did."
They nodded. "But not all change is bad."
Another silence. Not awkward — just thick with emotion.
Then, unexpectedly, your best friend shifted closer, their voice low.
"Can I ask something?"
You nodded.
"If… if you had to choose between us, eventually… would you pick the one who makes you laugh more?"
Your breath caught.
"I—"
"Or," your quiet friend interrupted softly, "the one who makes you feel safest?"
You looked between them — both sets of eyes fixed on you. Both faces lit by candlelight. Both hearts offered without condition.
"I don't know," you whispered. "I don't want to lose either of you."
Your best friend's voice broke the quiet. "Then don't answer yet. Just... let me say this."
They reached out, their hand brushing yours, warm and trembling.
"I've loved you since you tripped on your shoelaces in second grade and blamed the sidewalk. I loved you when you cried over your first failed test. I loved you when you danced alone in your room and thought no one saw."
You stared, speechless.
"And I'll keep loving you," they finished, "even if you choose someone else."
The quiet friend moved slightly closer, placing a hand gently over your heart.
"I don't need to say much," they whispered. "You already know. You've always known."
Your eyes stung. "Why are you both so good to me?"
Your best friend smiled, eyes glassy. "Because it's you."
Outside, the rain started again — soft, steady, comforting.
And in that candlelit room, three hearts beat louder than the storm.