Choosing Friends First
Chapter 8 – Choosing Friends First
The first boundary was not spoken like a warning.
It arrived quietly, disguised as ordinary life.
Kira’s phone buzzed on Thursday afternoon, mid-meeting, screen lighting up with Yuxin’s name.
She didn’t pick up.
She waited until the meeting ended, until the room emptied, until she could breathe again.
Then she listened to the voice note.
Yuxin (voice note): Kira… Wen’s not feeling good. Like, not just tired. She sounded strange. She said she’s fine but she’s not. Can you come over later?
Kira’s chest tightened immediately.
Not panic.
Instinct.
She typed back without overthinking.
Kira: Yes. I’ll come.
She didn’t ask for details. She didn’t demand justification. In her world, care did not require a case file.
A moment later, another message arrived.
Aleem: Free tonight? I found this quiet place you might like. No pressure.
Kira stared at the screen.
Her thumb hovered.
Not because she didn’t want to see him.
But because the answer was already clear.
She typed slowly, choosing honesty over softness.
Kira: I can’t tonight. Wen isn’t feeling well. I’m going to her.
She waited.
She expected nothing dramatic.
Still, the way people sometimes reacted to being deprioritised had trained her to brace.
The reply came.
Aleem: Go. I hope she’s okay.
Another message followed.
Aleem: Do you want me to send anything? Soup? Medicine?
Kira blinked.
Her throat tightened in that familiar way–the way it did when care arrived without demanding a reward.
She typed.
Kira: That’s kind. We’re okay. Thank you.
Aleem: Okay. Keep me updated if you want.
No sulking.
No guilt.
No subtle punishment.
Just space.
Kira exhaled slowly, setting her phone face down.
Then she stood and packed her bag.
Wen’s apartment was dim when Kira arrived.
The curtains were half drawn. The air smelled faintly of herbal tea. Wen sat on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright.
Aisyah was there already, sleeves rolled up, moving through the kitchen like she owned it.
Farah hovered nearby, unusually quiet, fussing with the thermostat.
Yuxin sat on the floor, back against the coffee table, scrolling through a list of symptoms as if the internet could make her feel useful.
Kira knelt in front of Wen immediately.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Wen’s eyes lifted.
“I’m fine,” Wen murmured.
Kira didn’t contradict her.
She simply reached out and pressed the back of her hand to Wen’s forehead.
Warm.
Too warm.
Kira’s voice stayed calm. “Have you eaten?”
Wen shook her head slightly.
Aisyah appeared with a bowl of porridge as if summoned.
“Sit,” Aisyah ordered, placing it carefully into Wen’s hands.
Farah crouched beside Kira and whispered, “She’s been like this since morning. Refused to tell us.”
Kira’s gaze flicked to Wen.
Wen avoided her eyes.
Kira didn’t scold.
She didn’t lecture.
She only said, very softly, “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Wen’s mouth trembled.
Not tears.
Just the edge of something.
“你不用解释。”
You don’t have to explain.
Kira sat beside her on the couch and leaned her shoulder gently into Wen’s.
The touch wasn’t romantic.
It was older than romance.
The kind of closeness that existed when you trusted someone with your quietness.
Later that night, after Wen had eaten and taken medicine, after Aisyah had insisted on checking her temperature twice and Farah had finally stopped hovering long enough to breathe, Kira stepped into the small balcony for air.
The city hummed below. Lights scattered like distant stars.
Kira pulled her cardigan tighter.
Her phone buzzed.
Aleem: How’s she?
Kira stared at the message.
It was simple.
But it carried a kind of attentiveness she hadn’t asked for.
She replied.
Kira: Fever. We’re taking care of her. She’s resting now.
Aleem: Good. I’m glad you’re with her.
A pause.
Then:
Aleem: If you need a ride later, tell me. No obligation.
Kira’s chest softened.
Her eyes stung slightly, not with sadness, but with the strange relief of being understood.
In her world, choosing her girls first was not negotiable.
And here was a man who did not treat that as competition.
Kira typed.
Kira: Thank you. I’ll let you know.
She didn’t add emojis.
She didn’t add softness to make him feel better.
She didn’t need to.
He wasn’t fragile.
The next day, Aleem saw his own version of that boundary.
Dan texted the group chat at lunchtime.
Dan: Boys. Aaron’s dad is in the hospital. He’s acting like it’s nothing but it’s not nothing. Dinner tonight?
Im replied immediately.
Im: Yes.
Fiz:
Fiz: I’m in.
Aleem was halfway through typing same when Kira’s name appeared on his screen.
Kira: How’s your day?
Aleem stared at it.
He could have answered and left it there.
He could have tried to see her after.
But the truth was simple.
Aaron needed them.
Aleem typed back.
Aleem: Busy. But fine. One of my friends is going through something. I’m meeting the boys tonight.
He waited.
The reply came quickly.
Kira: Go. I hope he’s okay.
Then, a second message.
Kira: Do you want me to send anything? Food?
Aleem blinked.
The symmetry of it hit him so cleanly it almost made him laugh.
Two people speaking the same language.
Care without claim.
Space without punishment.
He replied.
Aleem: That’s kind. We’re okay. Thank you.
Kira: Okay. Keep me updated if you want.
Aleem sat back in his chair.
He didn’t feel rejected.
He felt… respected.
As if his friendships were not obstacles to romance, but proof of his capacity for love.
That evening, the boys met Aaron outside the hospital.
Aaron looked the same as always–quiet, steady, composed.
But his eyes were tired.
Dan hugged him first, too fast, too hard.
Aaron stiffened, then–slowly–relaxed.
Im placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder and said nothing.
Fiz handed Aaron a bottle of water without looking at him.
Aleem stood a little closer than usual.
Aaron’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke.
“Thanks,” he said.
No explanation.
No details.
Just one word.
And it was enough.
As they walked together down the corridor, Aleem thought of Kira on Wen’s couch, pressing her hand to a fevered forehead.
Two worlds.
Two kinds of loyalty.
Not competing.
Not negotiating.
Just existing.
Later that night, after everything had quieted again, Kira and Aleem found a moment to speak.
Not a long call.
Not a heavy conversation.
Just a few lines.
Aleem: How’s Wen now?
Kira: Sleeping. Fever is lower.
Aleem: Good.
Kira: How’s Aaron?
Aleem: Tired. But he’s not alone.
Kira stared at the last sentence.
Aleem read his own words twice.
Neither of them added anything dramatic.
Neither of them tried to turn the moment into romance.
But something deepened anyway.
Not because they chose each other first.
But because they didn’t demand to be chosen first.
爱情不是侵占，是靠近。
Love does not invade–it approaches.