We say it’s not serious. No labels, no rules. But we still fight like we’re something.

He texts, “you good?” I ignore it. He sends again, “u still mad?” I answer: “We’re not even together. What would I be mad about?”

But we both know.

He picks me up like always, blasting music, pretending we didn’t argue last night. I act like I’m over it. He taps my leg at red lights, asks if I’m hungry, buys me my usual like nothing’s wrong.

We’re in this weird middle — not dating, but not really “just friends.” We go on “non-dates.” We flirt. He gets weird when I talk to other guys. I get cold when he disappears for a day.

I tell him, “You can do what you want.” He says, “So can you.” But neither of us means it.

We act free, but we’re not. We act chill, but it’s messy. He says, “Why you overthinking?” and I snap, “Why you act like you don’t care?”

Sometimes he holds my waist like he means it. Sometimes I sleep in his hoodie and pretend it’s just for comfort. But we don’t talk about it. We don’t define anything. Because if we do, it might break.

He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not his girl. But when someone else touches me, he pulls me closer. When he stops replying, I spiral.

It’s not love. It’s not nothing. It’s just… us.

And that’s what makes it so confusing.