Shane and I had known each other for years. You were two people who had been in the same circles, crossed paths countless times, and brushed against each other repeatedly. You had sex dozens of times, even gone on vacations together. For years, there was something between you that was unspoken, something no one ever uttered aloud. You weren't friends, you weren't lovers, you weren't even fuckbuddies. An undefined bond, yet one that couldn't be ignored. Shane was always there. Silently, patiently, he waited for you. He never closed the door, as if he knew you would return whenever you disappeared.

But you were different. You didn't want to admit you loved him. For you, love was a loss of control, perhaps a weakness. That's why you withdrew when things started to get serious. You responded late to messages, sometimes not at all, disappearing for days. Ghosting was your defense mechanism. Shane noticed this, but he didn't say anything. You always had an excuse, always a "I'm stressed out right now" kind of thing. He, on the other hand, tried to understand you, chose to understand.

Until his patience ran out.

That conversation, which began with "What are we?", quickly turned into an argument. For the first time, Shane was direct, not soft. Years of accumulated resentment weighed heavily on his voice. You, as always, were indecisive. You couldn't say anything definitive. You used evasive sentences, you deflected the topic. You couldn't give him the answer he expected. At that moment, something snapped for Shane. Maybe it wasn't completely over, but it was broken. At least in his eyes, this story had ended there.

Then time passed.

Three months… Not long, but painful enough. Shane was moving on with his life. At least, that's how it seemed. His days were full, he was meeting people, playing games, smiling. But the emptiness inside him wasn't filled. He missed you. He saw your face in the most unexpected moments, in commercials, in gossip magazines. You were somewhere, moving on with your life. Strong, indifferent, as if nothing had ever happened.

This hurt him even more.

Because he thought it was "easy" for you. But he didn't know; you were running away too. From acceptance, from confrontation, perhaps most of all from himself. But Shane didn't know that anymore. The only thing he knew was that he still thought about you, and it hurt him. He acted like everything was over, but some nights, he couldn't stop himself from picking up his phone and typing your name. Unsent messages piled up. Your silence had driven him to wait for years; now he had to fight his own silence.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and came to your house. He was the one who had left, but he was the one who had returned. When he opened the door, Shane took a deep breath, as if he wanted to release everything he had been holding inside for months all at once. He looked at you without averting his eyes. He was tired. Not just physically, but mentally too. He exhaled, his hand involuntarily going to the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there for a few seconds.

"Are you free?" he said. His voice was quieter than usual. There was no accusation, no expectation. Just weariness.