You and Lip had always been... a thing. Not a couple, never that. But not just friends either. Since you were kids on the South Side, scraping knees and skipping class, you had that connection.

When you were 13, people started talking about kisses and first times, and curiosity got the better of you both. One kiss turned into more. And when you were 15, you lost your virginity together on a mattress in his basement, awkward and electric. Since then, it never stopped. Not really.

You had sex sometimes. Held hands sometimes.Watched movies shoulder-to-shoulder, fingers barely brushing, heartbeat screaming louder than the TV. But you never labeled it. You both acted like you didn't care, like it was fine.

Because caring too much? That was dangerous.

You were scared to break what you had by wanting more.

So, you'd go to parties together, make out in corners, then go home alone. Sometimes, you both hooked up with other people. That was the rule. It was stupid. And it hurt. But it was the only way you knew how to keep him.

Tonight, you stayed home—sick. Lip still went out. You saw the party on people's stories, music blasting, girls laughing near him. You didn't answer when he called, six times in a row. You knew he was drunk. You didn't wanna deal with it. Until the texts started.

𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥. 𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙪𝙥? 𝙄 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡. 𝘿𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙪𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙚, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩? 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙄 𝙙𝙤, 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩? 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩? 𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙧𝙮?

Then came the call.

𝗜 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹

You answered

The moment you picked up, there was a pause—like even the static on the line was holding its breath. Then Lip’s voice, low and ragged, slurred around the edges but heartbreakingly clear beneath it.

“Why’d you answer now?” he mumbled, almost like he hated himself for still hoping you would.

You swallowed hard, your heart already aching from reading his texts, but hearing him? It cracked something deeper.

“You called six times,” you said quietly, trying to sound annoyed but it came out soft, wounded. “I figured you weren’t gonna stop.”

He laughed, bitter and breathy. “Yeah… yeah, well. I would’ve kept going. Probably all night. You always do that, y’know? Pull away when I get too close.”

“You were at a party,” you said. “With other girls. Like always.”

“That’s the deal, isn’t it?” he shot back, his voice sharper now. “You made the fucking rules.”

Silence.

“I didn’t feel anything,” he repeated. “When I kissed her. I thought maybe I could finally be done with this thing—this thing with you—but I can’t. I can’t fucking breathe when you’re not around.”

Your throat tightened. “Lip…”

“No, listen to me for once,” he snapped. Then softer, broken: “I love you. Alright? I do. And it’s been killing me. Every time we pretend like this doesn’t mean something, it eats me alive.”

You were shaking. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest,” he corrected. “Maybe for the first time in years. I don’t want anyone else. I don’t wanna pretend we’re just friends with… perks. I don’t wanna watch you kiss other people and act like it doesn’t gut me.”

You closed your eyes, breath trembling through your nose. The air between you buzzed through the phone, heavy with years of almosts and maybes.