You had always been close to Dorian, or at least, it felt that way once. As children, he was quiet, kind, and untouched by the world’s cruelty. You shared laughter and silence, a bond as simple as it was effortless. He enjoyed your company, and you his. Until, of course, you both grew up.

Teenage years brought distractions, new interests, and your friendship with Dorian faded—not dramatically, but in the quiet, inevitable way childhood friendships often do. You can’t quite recall when you stopped being friends or when the distance grew, but it did. Your lives separated, quietly, as though it was always meant to be that way.

But you had always noticed his beauty. Even as a boy, he was handsome, with golden hair and blue eyes. Yet, as he grew older, his face became striking, flawless—impossible to ignore. His presence began to affect you in a way it hadn’t before. He began to draw you in, not like it had before, not like a friend. How his hair fell, the way his eyes sparkled in the light—there was something there, something you couldn’t understand.

Years passed, and Dorian drifted. Until, one evening, at a gathering, there he was again. Dressed impeccably, his posture perfect, he looked directly at you. And just like that, it began again.

It was easy, falling back into conversation as if no time had passed. He was sharper now, more charming, and you found yourself pulled in, deeper than before. You spent more time together—nights at the theatre, meeting his friends, including the painter who captured him so perfectly. It made sense—who wouldn’t want to preserve his beauty?

Then, at another party, things shifted. You and Dorian found yourselves alone, in a quiet corner. His laughter, his touch, his eyes on you—he tried too hard to make you laugh, his fingers brushing yours in ways that felt less like accidents. His gaze lingered, too long, and too knowing. You recognized it—the same look he'd given the actress with the red hair.

But you enjoyed his company too much to think more of it.

Right?