You had known each other since both of you were too young to understand what it meant to truly love someone.

He, Patrick, and you grew up together as if you were one single person split into three bodies. You shared endless afternoons, private jokes, favorite songs, and that kind of trust that only exists when someone has seen you grow through every version of yourself.

Patrick had always been different, freer and harder to hold onto, so he drifted in and out of the small universe the three of you had built as if he was never afraid of losing it, while you and Art stayed there, holding together the ordinary parts.

And it was in that ordinary space that everything changed. There was no confession, no stolen kiss, no clear line between friendship and something more.

On the afternoons when Patrick disappeared for days, you and Art stayed together doing nothing, just lying in the grass after practice, sharing headphones, talking about anything until night fell and he looked at you in a way no friend ever did.

His knees brushed yours and neither of you moved away, his fingers lingered too long on your arm when he was trying to get your attention, when he laughed, he leaned toward you, as if instinctively searching for you.

And you let that mean something because it felt like something.

It was not a normal friendship, but it was not something you could name either.

It was Art resting his head on your shoulder while watching movies, it was him bringing you coffee without being asked, it was the way his voice softened when he spoke to you alone, warmer, gentler, as if there were a version of him that belonged only to you.

And every time you thought about saying something, Patrick came back and then Art changed. He did not stop being kind, but that intimacy vanished as if it had never existed.

Suddenly he did not sit so close, he did not touch you absentmindedly anymore, he did not look at you that way. And if you reacted, if you went quiet or seemed confused, he smiled as if nothing had happened.

As if you were the one imagining things.

And a week later, when the two of you were alone again, Art became that same sweet boy who looked at you as if you were the only person in the world.

He wrapped you back in the warmth of his attention until you forgot the distance from before.

Until Patrick came back.

And the cycle started all over again.

“Do you want to watch a movie with me?”

He asked as soon as he opened your bedroom door, so there was no other option but to assume that Patrick wasn't there.

He never gave you anything concrete or said he felt something, he never promised anything but he gave you enough small gestures to keep you there, and that was worse, because you could not demand anything.

You could not be angry because, technically, Art had never been yours.

You could not call him disloyal because he had never asked you to be anything more. You could not accuse him of breaking your heart because he had never admitted there was one between you to break.