This is the story of how Pear fell in love with her best friend.
Not in the let’s-make-out-under-a-fairy-lighted-balcony kind of way.
Not even in a you-complete-me kind of way.
Just in a damn, I can actually be myself with you kind of way.
She met Cinnamon on her first day at work.
He was wearing a blue and white shirt, sitting across the room, head down, headphones on. She noticed him, sure. He had a presence.
They all went out for lunch. Both vegetarian. They sat next to each other.
There wasn’t much small talk. It was just… smooth.
That same week, they landed up at a colleague’s house. Some were picking up wine. Others were sorting snacks. Pear and Cinnamon had nothing to buy.
And they walked in silence.
Not the awkward kind. The kind that said: this is nice. The kind that said: you don’t have to perform here.
Later that evening, someone—maybe her manager—mentioned to Pear that Cinnamon was gay.
She hadn’t clocked it. Her gaydar was off.
And when she found out, she wasn’t heartbroken in a love-lost kind of way.
She was just like, oh okay, there goes another opportunity.
Not to be with him. But just… the chance of something rare.
Because people like him don’t come around often.
Over time, they became friends. Real friends.
Not talk-every-day friends. But the kind that shows up when it matters.
She once called him for feedback on this product course she was doing. He sat through her whole deck, gave her clear, kind feedback.
That mattered to her. It still does.
Eventually, life happened. Work happened. They lived in different cities in Greece for a while.
He was based in Thessaloniki. She was in Athens.
They stayed in touch. Caught up when they could. Sometimes together, sometimes with other people.
And then sometime around March or April 2024, Pear realised she loved him.
Not in a sexual way. Not even in a maybe one day way.
Just in a how lucky am I to know you kind of way.
Cinnamon understood her. Not many people did.
She never told him. She didn’t expect anything in return.
She just hoped the friendship meant something to him the way it did to her.
But slowly, the energy shifted.
There weren’t fights. There was no drama.
It was just the flakiness. The constant yeses that led nowhere.
Cinnamon never said no.
And that was the problem.
He said yes to everything. Every plan, every conversation, every “we should catch up”—but those yeses floated in the air, unanchored. Nothing ever landed.
And that made it hard.
Because Pear didn’t know whether to wait, to push, or to let go.
Professionally, in 2024, Pear was building things—two ventures. She knew Cinnamon was a brilliant writer. Sharp opinions. Great instinct for entertainment and culture.
She asked him to write. He did, a few times. The pieces were solid.
But it fizzled out.
And Pear understood.
Writing without pay is hard. Showing up at 100% when it’s not your own project, also tough.
She was never heartbroken about that. Not even for a second.
Her sadness came from a different place.
She just hated seeing potential get wasted. And Cinnamon had so much of it.
In January 2025, Pear visited Thessaloniki again. She told him, I don’t know what’s causing this distance.
She opened up. Said she missed how things used to be.
And Cinnamon—he listened.
But after that? The pattern repeated. She stayed for a week. Told him she was around. And he never messaged again.
By the end of it, she messaged: “I’m sad.”
He replied: “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
And she said: “You don’t need to say anything. That’s just how I feel.”
That was it.
At some point—maybe March—he told her he felt like he had to baby her.
Make food. Make chai. Do the little things.
And Pear remembers thinking—maybe I should’ve just insisted more. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken his “no it’s okay” at face value. Maybe I should’ve stepped up and done it anyway.
But how far do you push a person who already won’t say no?
She didn’t block him. Didn’t delete his number. Didn’t unfollow him.
But she deleted the chats. Deleted the pictures.
Not because she wanted to erase him. She just knew they had to go.
Because sometimes you don’t need to delete the person, you just need to make space for yourself.
And the thing about the internet is—
It doesn’t know any of this.
It doesn’t know that you’ve quietly moved someone into the past tense.
It doesn’t know that you’re not friends anymore.
So it keeps throwing their name at you.
He shows up on her WhatsApp. On her LinkedIn.
And even though he’s not showing up by choice, the digital world is such—you just show up.
Even though you are not showing up by choice, but by an algorithm.
The algorithm does not know that she has classified him in her head, and in her feet, hopefully, as someone that she used to know.
It just thinks he’s someone she’s still friends with.
And she doesn’t think she is anymore.
Then two days ago, he messaged.
“Hey mama, I’m hosting this chai thing. Would be great if you come. I owe you a chai.”
The chai project wasn’t their idea alone. It was something a third person had initiated—someone with the contact. Pear was supposed to do the content.
And it wasn’t even about wanting to be part of it.
It was just the lack of communication. The complete disregard.
The nothing.
She replied:
“I’m not in town. Are we still friends?”
He replied:
“I don’t know mama, that’s up to you. I just owed you a chai.”
And that “mama”?
It used to be a thing. A fun Gen Z-late-millennial kind of thing. Something everyone said, but something that had its own tone between them.
Now it just felt off.
Like a performance. A placeholder. A half-hearted throwback to something that wasn’t there anymore.
Passive-aggressive from her side, even.
Like—I’m not your mama anymore.
She replied:
“That response gave me my answer. Take care. Happy chai making.”
He reacted with a heart emoji.
Of course he did.
And Pear?
Pear just stared at the screen.
Not angry. Not even surprised.
Just… done.
P.S: There’s a lot more to this story. Pear doesn’t express it all. Only when the feelings are at the brim.
