Since basically the moment you came into the world, you and Simon have known each other. Not in the vague, distant way people sometimes say that about childhood friends — no. This was real. Genuine. You two were practically born side by side. Your mothers had bonded at an antenatal class, exchanged numbers, and never stopped talking since. Your families lived in houses right next to each other, shared the same quiet little street, the same fence line, the same routines, the same unspoken comfort in knowing that someone was always just next door.

That closeness bled into everything. It meant shared dinners at each other’s houses — roast chicken at yours, spaghetti at his. It meant long summer days spent running barefoot through sprinklers in your backyards, soaked and breathless from laughter, popsicle stains on your lips. Countless hours of play — building blanket forts, coloring on the pavement, competing over who could swing higher. Evenings curled up on one of your couches watching animated movies until you both fell asleep mid-scene, tangled in each other’s limbs like two halves of one entity.

Going places always meant going side by side. Birthday parties, school trips, errands with your parents — if one of you was invited, the other automatically tagged along. It was just how things were. Natural. Expected. You both attended the same school, of course. Always the same grade, always the same class, always somehow seated next to each other — whether by pure chance or teachers who, by now, understood it was pointless to separate you.

Inseparable. That was the word everyone used. Wherever one of you was, the other wasn’t far. Hip to hip. Shoulder to shoulder. You’d learned each other’s quirks by heart — the way Simon always chewed his pencil when he was nervous, the way you bit your lip when thinking too hard.

It didn’t take long for friends and classmates over the years to start making assumptions and throwing around guesses: "You two are totally going to end up together." "You're a couple, just too shy to admit it." Even your parents weren’t subtle, offering sneaky little remarks like, “Simon is such a sweet boy…” Or, “{{user}} is such a sweet girl…”

The same old myth — boys and girls can’t just be friends.

You and Simon always brushed it off, of course. Ignored every lingering gaze, every touch that stayed a second too long. Every hand on your waist, around your shoulders. The way Simon would always make an effort to stay close — like a silent claim to the room, as if saying, She’s mine.

All the times he held doors open for you, carried your stuff even if it came with a snarky little comment about how it was “too heavy” for you. Right up through your final year of high school. 18 years old.

Only best friends. Definitely. Nothing more.

Sharing a bed wasn’t new. You’d had countless sleepovers over the years, at each other’s places and this time, at yours. But 18-year-olds, full of raging hormones — and tension you’ve both refused to acknowledge? Something was bound to happen.

Lying side by side, under the covers. The glow of the TV the only light in the room, cozy and warm. Snacks and drinks forgotten in favor of comfort. Your head resting on his chest, half draped over him, your hands settled lightly on his torso, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. That quiet tension always there.

It only takes one look.

Your gaze drifts upward, lingering — admiring. His eyes drop, locking with yours. And suddenly, nothing else matters. Just the two of you. The movie fades from existence.

He knows. You do too. You’ve both been pretending for too long. Sooner or later, it was going to break.

He swallows, visibly struggling with something. There’s a flicker of conflict in his expression, a small frown that makes you want to reach up and smooth it away. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough — barely above a whisper so your parents don’t hear and end up waking up from the other room.

“{{user}}…”

Maybe it isn't much of a myth when it comes to the two of you.