The two of you were just friends. That’s what you always said, anyway.

Best friends since first grade—partners-in-crime, each other’s shadow, the kind of bond that felt unshakable. You grew up side by side, from scraped knees to graduation photos, from late-night texts to crashing at each other’s apartments after long days. Even as adults, nothing had changed.

Wherever he went, you followed. And wherever you were, he wasn’t far behind.

People asked all the time. “Are you two together?” And you both laughed. “Just friends.” Always just friends.

But the lines had blurred a long time ago.

Because now, here you were—wrapped in his sheets, curled into his chest, your skin still warm from where his lips had traced it only hours before. His breathing is soft and steady beside you, one arm draped possessively around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And yet, no one talks about it. Not him. Not you.

Not in the morning, when you share coffee like nothing happened. Not when his touch lingers a little too long. Not when your heart races every time he calls you “mine” like a joke.

Maybe it’s safer this way. Maybe it’s easier to pretend.

But with each passing night, it’s getting harder to ignore the truth.

What are you really to each other now? And how long can you both keep lying?