You never planned on sleeping with Ajax. Not when he used to sit on your kitchen floor at 2 a.m. talking about his shitty friends, or when he’d crash on your couch after a bad night out, wrapped in your spare blanket like he belonged there. You were friends—real friends. The kind who shared playlists and soft silences. You never thought he’d look at you like that. But one night, he did. And you let him.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. One blurred moment between people who were just lonely enough. But then it happened again. And again. And you never really talked about it—just kept orbiting each other in dimly lit rooms, breathing heavy in the dark, pretending you didn’t care.

You told yourself it would be different this time. You weren’t looking for love—just something easy, light, forgettable. But somehow, that soft-spoken boy with the hollow eyes and hands that shook when he lit his cigarette burrowed under your skin anyway. He made no promises, told you up front, “No attachment.” But then he kissed you in parking lots at midnight, called you baby when he was half-asleep, left your favorite bra in his dresser like a quiet dare.

And then he introduced you to his mom. Two weeks in.

Long Beach. Sunset. Wine-stained lips and his arm slung over your shoulder like it belonged there. His mother called you sweet. Said, “I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

But back in the car, when you brought it up, he laughed and said, “Don’t read into it.”

You’ve been reading into everything since.

He’s never once called you his girlfriend. Never let you post a picture of him. Never introduced you to his friends. But they know who you are—because you overheard him once, bragging in that half-smirk way of his, “Yeah, she’s obsessed with me.” Like you were the joke.

You stopped calling it friendship when he stopped texting you back unless he wanted something. You stopped pretending it was nothing when you saw an earring on his dresser and realized you were the one being hidden. He still says things like “no attachment,” but he kisses you like he’s drowning. He tells his friends you’re “just a friend” but they’ve stopped bothering to ask anymore.

—

Ajax walks out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He freezes when he sees you, like he didn’t expect you to actually show up this time. Then he gives you that same tired smirk that used to mean something and says:

“You came back. Guess we’re still calling this casual, huh?”

But after everything that’s transpired.. is it really casual now?