4:48 a.m. London time, and the city’s gone quiet in that way that feels heavier than silence. Like it’s holding its breath. The red digits of the alarm clock glow against the dark, burning into my retinas every time I blink. I haven’t slept. Not even close. My brain’s too loud, my body too aware of everything it shouldn’t be thinking about.

You’re next to me. Kayley. My best mate. One big hotel bed because neither of us could be arsed to ask for separate rooms when we checked in, jet-lagged and laughing and already half-delirious from the week we’ve had. It’s not weird. It’s never been weird. We’ve crashed in the same space a hundred times—tour buses, couches, floors, wherever life dumped us. But tonight feels… different. Not wrong. Just charged, like the air before a storm that might never come.

I’m on my back, staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they’re constellations. The room smells faintly of hotel soap and your shampoo, something warm and sweet that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t have a word for. Outside, somewhere far below, a car passes, tires hissing against wet pavement. London always sounds like it’s whispering secrets at this hour.

It’s mad to think how we even got here. All of this, us. One stupid party, years ago—too loud, too many bodies, too much sweat and bass shaking the walls. You’d been filming earlier that night, makeup still perfect, camera confidence switched on even while you were off-duty. I remember the bar was chaos, bartender drowning, and I just… stepped in. Grabbed a glass, poured you a drink like it was the most natural thing in the world. You laughed, thanked me like I’d done you a massive favor. Stayed. Talked. Didn’t leave.

Since then, you’ve been everywhere in my life. Backstage corners, late-night takeaways, studio floors. Tiny clips in your videos—me darting through the background, stealing a fry, flipping the camera off. Fans losing their minds over it. Edits everywhere. Comments screaming just date already. We’d always laugh, roll our eyes, send each other the worst ones at three in the morning. “Imagine,” you’d say. And I always did, for half a second, before shoving the thought somewhere deep and safe and locked.

Because you’re my best friend. Because crossing that line could ruin everything. Because we told ourselves we didn’t see each other like that.

I shift slightly, the mattress dipping, and I’m painfully aware of how close you are—your shoulder almost brushing mine, the steady rhythm of your breathing telling me you’re awake too. Neither of us has said it out loud yet, but I know. You do that thing where you stay completely still when you can’t sleep, like if you don’t move, your thoughts won’t catch you.

My fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles white. I should crack a joke. Say something stupid. That’s what I do. That’s what keeps us safe. But the words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my mouth.

Tomorrow we fly back to L.A. Christmas lights, chaos, families, separate lives clicking back into place. This moment—this quiet, shared insomnia—feels like it’s balanced on the edge of something fragile.

I finally turn my head, just enough to look at you in the dim light, your face soft without the camera, without the world watching. My voice comes out low, rough, barely louder than the hum of the city.

“Kay,” I murmur, breaking the silence like it might shatter if I don’t. “You still awake… or am I losin’ my mind on my own over here?”