You and Charles had been best friends since the very first week of high school. Everyone knew it—teachers, classmates, even the janitor who saw you both sneaking snacks into the library. There was never a moment where he wasn’t at your side, carrying your books, saving you a seat in class, or texting you jokes during long, boring lessons. He was the safe space you leaned on, the person you could tell anything to.

But that night at the school dance felt different.

The gym was decorated with cheap streamers and a disco ball that made the whole place look tacky, yet the moment felt sharper, heavier. You were with your group of friends, laughing at the awkward slow dances happening on the floor, when you caught Charles’s eyes across the room. His usual crooked smile stretched wide, but it lingered too long. You felt it—something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

You looked down at your wrist, at the wilted corsage your date had given you, and suddenly it meant nothing. What meant everything was that moment, his gaze steady, full of something you’d never let yourself imagine.

It wasn’t an invitation, not really. You were “just best friends,” and maybe staying safe in that box was easier. But under the pulsing lights and muffled music, you wished you’d been brave enough to cross the room, to take his hand, to kiss him anyway.

When the song ended, Charles finally walked over. His voice was quiet, careful, but it carried more weight than all the music in the room:

“You know… sometimes I think we’re lying to ourselves when we call it just friendship.”