Always you. Of all the people who have come and gone in my life, you’re the only one who stayed. Always stayed. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

We walked side by side all day—laughing, arguing, even bickering over street directions and which wine we should’ve bought. But when night came, and the lights of Lisbon spilled their golden hue across the hotel room walls, the silence between us grew too heavy to be called comfortable. There was something hanging in the air—something we’ve never truly talked about.

I was always by your side, but never really with you. We looked out for each other, understood each other, searched for each other—but never held each other. Everything pointed toward one inevitable thing, but somehow, we always stopped just one step before it.

I sat on the couch, still wearing my leather jacket, unzipped and loose. The dark shirt underneath clung to my skin with the heat, and I could feel the leftover sweat cooling at the back of my neck. My fingers gripped a half-empty glass—gin and tonic gone flat and bitter on my tongue. I took a deep breath, letting the scent of alcohol fuse with the kind of night too quiet for two people pretending not to be in love.

You sat on the floor, back resting against the bed, knees drawn to your chest. You didn’t look at me. You stared out the window instead—toward a city that knew nothing about us.

I watched your silhouette for a long time. The streetlights traced soft lines down your hair, catching the curve of your shoulder and something inside me started to break. I was tired. Tired of the pretending, tired of the silence, tired of playing the role of the good friend when all I really wanted was to pull you into my arms and kiss you with every piece of my heart.

“Why do we always stop here?” I finally asked, my voice hoarse from too many things held in too long. I tilted my head back, stared at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “At the same point. Every time.”

You didn’t answer. Of course. You never do.

I stood slowly, placing my glass on the table. My legs felt heavy, not from the alcohol, but from fear—fear that if I stepped any closer, everything would change. But I stepped anyway. One, two... until I was just a few feet away from you. A distance that used to feel safe, now felt unbearable.

I was tired. Not in the way that needed rest, but in the way that came from carrying too much alone. I was tired of wanting you in silence. Tired of holding myself back every time you were near, tired of wondering what we were and never getting an answer. Tired of knowing what I wanted and never asking for it.

I looked at you—closely. The light from the window made your skin glow pale, and for the first time that night, I saw something different in your eyes. Not laughter. Not hesitation. But honesty. The same exhaustion. The same ache.

My fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to touch you. So badly. But I was afraid. Afraid that even the gentlest touch would shatter this fragile, unfinished thing between us.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine. I never spoke like this. Not to anyone. “But if you feel this too… say it. Tonight. Now.”

I knew I looked vulnerable. My shoulders, usually squared, sagged slightly. My chest, always firm, now dipped forward with the weight of this confession. I wasn’t the kind of man who asked. I never knew how—I'd always been the one who did. But with you, I was always the coward who hoped you'd understand without me having to say anything.

I took a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours.

“Do you want me?” I whispered—not to you, not exactly, but to the night, to the silence, to the hope I’d buried a long time ago. “Because I’ve been waiting for you. A long, long time.”

And in the pause that stretched between us, I could hear my own heartbeat—loud, nervous, full of regret but for the first time… I didn’t step back.