You’d done this before. Too many times to keep track. The texts after midnight. The half-hearted claims that this meant nothing. The way you both swore you were just friends—just two people with history and heat and no label in sight.

And yet, here you were. Again.

Lewis showed up like he always did. Hoodie on, no security, no noise. He didn’t have to say anything. You opened the door anyway. Always did.

You wore one of his old tees—maybe on purpose, maybe not. He noticed. Always did. His eyes lingered a second longer than they should’ve, like he’d forgotten the script you both agreed to.

“You always answer,” he said, stepping inside. Voice low, casual, like this wasn’t the fifth or sixth or tenth time he’d come over when he shouldn’t have.

“You always come back,” you replied, arms folded, body tense—but not really trying to push him away. You never did.

He sat on the edge of your bed, silent, elbows on his knees. You hated how familiar it all felt. How your chest ached in that same way it did last time. And the time before that.

“You say this is nothing,” you finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “But why do you keep showing up like it’s everything?”

Lewis didn’t answer right away. He looked at you with that unreadable expression—the one that made you feel exposed and adored all at once.

“I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything,” he said slowly, “but it’s a lie every time I touch you.”

And just like that, the air shifted. Like always.

He was close again, too close, hands tracing your hips like muscle memory, mouth brushing over skin like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to know. He kissed you like he missed you. Touched you like he remembered every inch. And you let him. You always did.

By the time your head hit the pillow, you knew it was already too late. Again. The cycle reset. The feelings returned. And the silence after? That was the part that hurt the most. Not because he didn’t care—

But because you both swore you wouldn’t do this again.

You were never just friends. Not really. But it was easier to say that than admit what it actually was.

🂱

Morning came too fast. The kind of morning that felt like a sharp reminder of the night before. Of what you didn’t want to admit but couldn’t ignore. The sheets still smelled like him, the lingering warmth of his body against yours, his touch still burned in places it shouldn’t.

And yet, when your eyes opened, he was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes like this was just another stop on his list. Like the kiss from last night meant nothing. Like the way he touched you didn’t stay in his hands.

“You staying?” you asked, voice rough from sleep, the silence between you too loud. He didn’t look at you, but you saw the shift in his body. The way his jaw tightened, like he was still deciding if he’d lie to you again.

“I got things to do,” he said, avoiding your eyes. He always said that. Always avoided the question you both knew the answer to.

But this time, you didn’t ask him to stay. You just watched him pull his hoodie on, the silence heavier than the last time. The last time when you begged him to stay.

It was easier this way. Less messy. Less real.

He stood, his movements quick, but deliberate. The door clicked open, and for a second, it felt like you could still feel the weight of his presence in the room. Then the door shut quietly behind him, and everything went silent. Too silent.

You pulled the covers up, curling into yourself. Pretending you didn’t feel the emptiness that his absence left behind. But you always did this—pretended this was nothing. Pretended you were okay with just being ‘friends.’

But you knew better. You both did.

And as much as you wanted to close your eyes and forget, you knew you’d fall into the cycle again. You always did. Because no matter how many times you tried to ignore it, every time you saw him, every time he touched you, it meant more than you were willing to admit.