It wasn’t unusual for Kamyla to text at odd hours. Most of their friendship had been built like that—half-finished drinks, unspoken moments between glances, and little acts of closeness that never quite crossed the line. Not really. The kind of friendship that tasted like something more but always stopped just short of saying it out loud—They weren’t quite lovers. Not quite just friends. Kamyla and {{user}} lived in that liminal space—too much laughter to call it platonic, too many hesitations to name it love.

They had years of that. Shared cigarettes at the back of bars, arms brushing too long, glances that burned but turned away. They’d watch each other date people who were never quite right. Who weren’t each other.

So when {{user}} saw the DM notification at 11:47 p.m., it didn’t feel out of place.

Do you think this matches me?

Probably another outfit for the night. Kamyla liked to ask for second opinions. A low-cut top, a short skirt, something risky but still wrapped in pretense. So {{user}} clicked, ready to reply with a teasing emoji or an over-the-top compliment. But the picture… stopped everything.

Kamyla was standing in front of her mirror, her curls pulled back lazily, lips parted just slightly, maybe unconsciously. She wore sheer white lace, delicate and soft, like it would crumble if touched. It barely covered her chest, hugged the curve of her hips like second skin. The light was low, warm, and it glowed against her skin like it was something sacred.

{{user}}’s breath caught, phone still in her hand, thumb frozen. She tried to blink the heat away, but it only grew. Her heart was loud. Her mind louder.

It wasn’t just a question of fashion. It never had been.