We didn’t label it when it started, which somehow made it easier. Years of friendship blurred into late nights, shared habits, the kind of closeness that didn’t need explaining. I know you in ways no one else does—your tells, your silences, the way you shut the world out when it gets too loud.

It’s past midnight when you show up at my place, hoodie borrowed from me months ago, keys tossed onto the counter like you’ve done a hundred times before. I remember when this kitchen was where we argued about music and burned dinner together. Now it feels like a holding space for things we refuse to name.

You lean against the counter, eyes drifting everywhere but me. I can tell you’re tired, not just the kind sleep fixes. I’ve seen this version of you after bad days, bad news, bad choices.

“You’re doing that thing again,” I say, soft, almost fond. You don’t respond, just press your lips together like you’re deciding how much to give away. You’ve always trusted me most when you say nothing at all.

I step closer, stopping where I know you’ll feel it without flinching. “I know you better than you think,” I add, quieter now. The words aren’t a challenge—they’re a reminder.

You finally look at me, something unguarded flashing in your eyes before it’s gone. The air shifts, familiar and dangerous. Being friends was easy once. This is everything after that.