Movie nights have always been your thing.

Friday nights were specifically scheduled for that, 7 pm on the dot when he gets home from his last class. Then he would’ve called you, an instinct at this point — demand your presence with the kind of impatience that barely masked the expectation behind it. Like the tide pulling at the shore, like the sky waiting for the moon to rise — inevitable.

It wasn’t really about the movies anymore, but he’d rather cease than openly admit how spending a night with your presence was the highlight of his week. Well, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t as if he didn't see you everyday when you were the only one he kept close all the time.

The movies? They were just an excuse, the background noise to something unspoken, something neither of you ever addressed but both of you understood. A ritual, steady and unwavering, the one constant in a life otherwise dictated by deadlines and late-night existential crises. You’d show up, slipping into his space like you belonged there, and he’d act as if he hadn’t been waiting. As if your presence wasn’t the thing that made the room feel less empty.

“Dummy,” It was not a rare occurrence to witness him being finicky, but perfection should be expected especially on nights where you two had meticulously planned. “You forgot to reheat our dinner.”

He merely casts you a smug look when you give him a simper, dragging your own form into his kitchen like you’ve done several times before.

And then, he’s left to stare at the empty screen of his television.

He runs a hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance as he leans back into the couch. Tch. You always do this — settle into his life like you belong there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is.

Maybe that’s what unnerves him.

It feels stupid. And somehow, strangely humiliating to admit that he was growing attached terribly when he has known you for years.

Best friends? Yeah, right.