Ladies who married their "just-a-friend" what was the moment everything changed?

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Riley and I met in the most chaotic way possible. I was having a complete meltdown in the campus bathroom because my "best friend" Sarah had just hooked up with my ex at a party, and this girl I'd never seen before handed me tissues and said, "Honey, anyone who does that was never your friend to begin with."

She stayed with me for two hours, helped me fix my mascara, and walked me home even though we were complete strangers. The next day she texted asking if I wanted to get coffee and trash-talk terrible people. Friendship instantly activated.

Riley became my person in ways I didn't know I needed. When Sarah and her toxic friend group started spreading rumors about me, Riley shut it down so fast it made their heads spin. When I got food poisoning during finals week, she brought me soup and sat on my bathroom floor keeping me company.

We did everything together — girls' trips, workout classes, those 4-hour Target runs where you go in for shampoo and leave with a cart full of random stuff. She was my plus-one for family weddings, my emergency contact, my voice of reason when I wanted to text my ex at 2 AM.

The thing is, we both dated guys constantly. Riley was gorgeous in that effortless way that made everyone do double-takes, and I was always playing wingwoman. She'd help me get ready for dates, lending me her clothes and doing my makeup better than I ever could.

But here's where it got weird — I started getting irrationally annoyed when guys would hit on her when we were out together. I'd make these bitchy comments about how they were "obviously not good enough for her" and feel possessive in ways that made no sense.

When she started seriously dating this guy Connor, I convinced myself I was just being protective. But watching them together made my chest feel tight in a way I couldn't explain. I'd find myself analyzing everything he did, looking for red flags that honestly weren't there.

The breaking point came during her birthday party. Connor surprised her with this elaborate setup — flowers, her favorite wine, a playlist of songs that meant something to them. Everyone was gushing about how romantic it was, and I felt physically sick watching her face light up.

I escaped to the bathroom and just stared at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out why I felt like crying. That's when it hit me like a freight train — I wasn't jealous of Connor having Riley. I was jealous of Riley having Connor.

I was in love with my best friend, and I had been for God knows how long.

The realization was terrifying. I'd never questioned my sexuality before, never looked at girls that way. But suddenly every moment with Riley looked different in my head — the way she'd play with my hair during movie nights, how she'd grab my hand when she got excited, the butterflies I got when she'd text me good morning.

I avoided her for three days, claiming I was sick. She showed up at my apartment with soup and that concerned look that always made me melt.

"What's really going on?" she asked, sitting on my bed like she belonged there. "You've been weird since my party."

I tried to lie, but she knew me too well. So I just blurted it out: "I think I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do about it."

The silence felt like forever. Then she started crying, which made me panic until she said, "I broke up with Connor yesterday because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

She told me she'd been questioning everything since we met, that every guy she dated felt wrong because they weren't me. She'd been too scared to say anything because she didn't want to lose me.

Our first kiss happened right there on my unmade bed, surrounded by tissues and soup containers. It was soft and desperate and felt like coming home.

We've been together four years, married for one.