It was never a good thing. You knew it.

But you couldn't help yourself.

She should know. She should know how you feel by now.

You thought it was okay – you thought it was fine. To fall.

But you'd never thought you wouldn't be able to get up.

You hated how you feel. It hurt, and in the worst way possible. It made you feel like you were a speck of dust in the presence of her shining light.

You can tell she doesn't look at you that way.

But you can also tell that she doesn't look at you the way you wish she did.

You've known her for years now. Back from in your first year in high school, when you met her – when both of you were in a school idol group. There were seven other people.

And out of all of them, you fell for her.

You are an adult now. You live by yourself, in your apartment.

And you still love her.

Every day, she still infiltrates your mind. The simple thought of seeing her makes you feel like you're in high school all over again, yearning to see the bright smile that you loved so much.

That you still love.

She visits you frequently. She's a world-famous idol, and she's on tour most of the time, but you're eternally gratefully she puts in the time to visit you at all.

You appreciate it, really.

The doorbell rings, and it's her; you know it is.

It has to be.

It is.

You open the door to her smiling face, and her arms are open wide – you know what she wants, and you gladly oblige. You fall into her embrace and she wraps her arms tightly around you. You hope she can't hear the loud beating of your chest.

When you take a step back after she frees you, she's grinning, like she always does when she visits. You beckon her to follow you in, and she does so without hesitating. You head over to the kitchen to prepare the tea. No words have yet been exchanged, but no words are needed. It has always been this way.

You return to the living room with a tray in your hands. She is sitting on the couch, lazily looking at her phone, feet propped up on the coffee table.

You call her name to catch her attention, "Nico." She glances up at you, and smiles.

I brought the tea, you want to say, but the words are caught up in your throat. It's the same smile that always made you feel so weak. You set the tray down on the table as Nico retreats her feet. She reaches for her cup, and you do too. You hold it in your hands, but you don't drink it.

"So," Nico starts. She doesn't continue, and she casts her gaze down to her drink.

"So," you repeat. You're nervous; what for? You have no idea. There's nothing to be afraid of.

"How are you?" she asks. The corners of her lips are turned up.

"I'm good. Fine. The same." You set down your cup. "What about you?"

You're glad you asked, because Nico smiles ever so slightly and tells you about the places she's been while she was gone and the amazing people she got to meet. You love it when she talks about everything like that. Nico had always been able to appreciate every kind of beauty.

"That's great," you say, and you mean it.

Nico closes her eyes and leans her head back, "I know, right?"

You offer Nico to stay for the night.

She accepts.

You still miss her.

Even though she's sleeping on a futon right beside you, you can't help but feel that it's only temporary.

Because it is.

Because early tomorrow, just as the sun peeks out from the horizon, she will have to go. You remind yourself that she is famous; she has countries to travel, concerts to perform, people to meet. You're hardly important.

You wonder if you can convince her to stay.

She smiles at you.

It's only five in the morning.

"I have to go." There it is. You want to tell her not to leave, that you would be lonely, but you know you can't. Nico has a career; you cannot let yourself get in the way of the dream she had since she was in high school.

Instead, you return her smile, albeit a little forced, "I know."

She pulls you in for another hug.

You hold back tears.

It's been a month since she last visited.

You yearn to see her again.

Your phone rings, and you recognise the song immediately – Nico's first song as an idol, her debut song.

She's calling.

Your heart drums rapidly in your ribcage. She has never called you, not overseas. What does she want to tell you?

You press the answer button. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Marty?"

Marty? Who is that? Why is Nico speaking in English? You frown. "Who is Marty?"

The line goes silent for a while.

Finally, you hear her voice again. "Maki?"

You can feel your unwanted anger rising. You answer with gritted teeth, "That's me."

"Oh." You hear Nico swallow. "Oh. Um. I'm sorry, Maki, I didn't mean to call you."

She sounds sorry. You don't want to forgive her. The one time she calls you and it was an accident? "I thought you wanted to call me."

"Maki, I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

You're being ridiculous, childish, and you know it. But you want to be angry.

"Maki, I don't have time for this," Nico sighs and you can tell she's annoyed. But you are, too.

"Are you saying you don't have time for me?!"

The only response you receive is the sound of static, and for a moment you think she hung up. But when she does reply, her voice is dry and cracked and you feel like a jerk for saying anything at all.

"What makes you think that?" You know she doesn't want you to reply.

So you don't.

Nico continues talking. "You know what, Maki? There was going to be a surprise. I was going to come back on your birthday, there was going to be a party. We were going to make you happy. I was going to make you happy."

You want to say something, but you can't, you can't, because there are tears streaming down your cheeks and you're clenching your fist so hard you're almost positive you're drawing blood.

"And for the longest time, I've been in love with you."

You try to apologise, after that.

She tells you, every day, that she doesn't mind, but you know she does.

She has to.

You know without a doubt that what you said had affected her more than it had affected you, and you can never forgive yourself for that. Not even if Nico forgives you.

But you're still happy – happier, at least.

You can think of her smile without doubting yourself; you can want to kiss her without feeling like a stalker.

And she's still halfway across the world, not coming back to see you until April, your birthday.

It's okay, you tell yourself.

You'll see her again.

You'll never see her again.

You want to doubt it. You want to tell yourself that Nozomi is merely pulling your leg. That's she's lying.

But she's not.

She's crying – you are, too. You can't help it. She holds you in a tight embrace, and it's warm, it's soft, but it feels nothing like Nico.

You miss Nico.

"I'm so sorry, Maki," Nozomi says in a whisper, and you don't reply. Because it's not okay. It's never okay, not anymore.

It's not okay, because tomorrow is your birthday, because Nico was coming home, because the plane crashed and Nico is gone.

You can't believe it.

You can't believe that after so many years and you finally got together with the person you love – she's gone. And you're still here.

There were no survivors.

The doorbell rings; you know it's not her.

It can't be.

But it has to be her.

It isn't.