It started with a party and a kiss that didn’t mean anything. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You and Bang Chan had been friends for years—tight-knit through college, the kind of friendship built on late-night ramen runs, playlist sharing, and long conversations about dreams you didn’t think would ever come true. He was the kind of constant you never questioned. Until one night, after too many shots and a game of truth or dare, the line blurred.

The next morning, tangled in his sheets, you both laughed it off. “One-time thing,” you said. “Yeah,” he agreed. It wasn’t.

There were rules, loosely made and loosely followed: no strings, no sleepovers, no feelings. It was supposed to be simple. It was anything but.

Somewhere between movie nights and shared toothbrushes, you started noticing things. The way his voice softened when he said your name. How he remembered the tiniest details about your life, like the exact way you took your coffee or that one book that made you cry in high school. He’d bring you snacks during your study nights and sit on the floor of your room just to be near you.

You told yourself it was just Chan. He was always thoughtful. He was like this with everyone. You didn’t let yourself read into it. Not too much.

But then there were the things he didn’t do with everyone—like how he only called you when he couldn’t sleep. Or how he always reached for your hand when you walked through crowds. Or how he kissed you like he meant it, even when no one was watching.

You started catching feelings. Quietly. Slowly. Reluctantly.

And you knew—you knew—that if you were falling, there was no way he wasn’t. Because he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

Still, neither of you talked about it.

One night, after a rough week, you ended up at his place. You weren’t there to hook up—just needed somewhere to breathe. He let you in without saying a word, handed you a blanket, and sat beside you in the dark. For once, there was no pretending. You didn’t kiss. You didn’t touch. You just sat, shoulders pressed together, hearts too loud in your chests.

And then he said it.

Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘I want more’.

Just: “Sometimes, I wish we hadn’t started this the way we did.”

You looked at him. “Why?”

He hesitated, eyes scanning yours. “Because now I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know if I can ask for more without losing what we already have.”

You wanted to say, It’s real to me. You wanted to scream, Me too. I want more too.

But all that came out was, “So what do we do?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked away.

After that, things got…weird. Not broken, but different. Like you were walking around a conversation neither of you wanted to finish. You kept hooking up. You kept acting like nothing had changed. But it had.

And then came the moment that really shattered it—one night, after everything, when he held you close and murmured your name like a prayer, like something sacred. You kissed his collarbone and whispered, “What are we doing?”

He stilled. You could feel his heart beating against yours.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But I don’t want to stop.”

That should’ve made you feel better. But it didn’t.

Because wanting to stay in this half-built space with you wasn’t the same as choosing you. Not really. And you were tired of almosts.