You tell yourself it’s just another fight. Another petty argument that sent Matthew storming out of his apartment, phone in hand, dialing the only number he seems to remember when things go wrong—yours. And, like always, you pick up. How could you not?

“We had another fight.” You don’t ask what it’s about anymore. It’s always something small, something that shouldn’t matter, but somehow always does. Instead, you step aside and let him in, like you always do. The routine is familiar now. He flops onto your couch, runs a hand through his messy hair, and sighs while you grab two mugs of tea.

You’ve been best friends for nearly a decade, but these moments—when he leans on you, when it feels like you’re his safe haven—always blur the lines for you. You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to convince yourself that this is enough. Because it has to be. What else could you have?

“I don’t even know why I bother sometimes,” Matthew says, his voice breaking the silence. You sit beside him, listening as he vents about her again. Every word feels like a knife, but instead of speaking, you listen. Because no matter how much it hurts, being there for him—even like this—is better than not having him at all. So you stay, you endure, you let yourself break for him. And when he finally looks at you and smiles, grateful for your presence, it almost feels worth it. Almost.