It started as something simple — or at least, that’s what Donnie said it was supposed to be. No labels. No promises. Just two people who understood each other too well to stay completely apart.

Nights would blur into each other — the hum of a late movie, quiet laughter that filled the space between words, the way he’d look at you like he was trying to memorize something he knew he shouldn’t want. He’d pull away the next morning, eyes clouded, mumbling something about it being better this way.

You’d tell him it was fine. You’d both pretend it was fine. But every time he showed up at your window, or you caught that restless look in his eyes, the lines you drew started to fade.

Donnie didn’t do well with control — not his own, not anyone else’s. The more he tried to keep things detached, the more he seemed to come undone. You could see it in the way he lingered, the hesitation before he left, the way he’d whisper your name like he was trying to convince himself it didn’t mean anything.

And maybe it didn’t. Or maybe that was the biggest lie either of you ever told.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the TV. Donnie sat close, the glow flickering across his face, his knee brushing yours. The air between you was tight — charged with all the things you both refused to say.

He looked at you for a long time before leaning in. The distance closed, breath hitching, and then— his hand froze.

You could feel his heartbeat against your wrist. He lingered there, so close that you could see the flicker of fear behind his eyes. Then he pulled back abruptly, standing up like the space between you had burned him.

“I can’t,” he said, voice low but sharp. “This isn’t supposed to mean anything.”

You didn’t move.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes darting everywhere but you. “It’s just— I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he muttered, almost to himself. “One second I think I’m fine, and then you look at me and…” His voice trailed off, the rest swallowed by the silence.

He finally met your gaze, something raw flickering there — guilt, fear, maybe longing. “You should stop coming here,” he said, though it didn’t sound like he meant it.

The TV flickered again, washing his face in cold blue light as he sank back into the dark.