"Just Friends"—Yeah, Right.

You and Gilbert were just friends. That’s what you told people. That’s what you told yourself.

But then why was he always so close? Why did his gaze linger a little too long, his shoulder brushing against yours like he didn’t want to move away? Why did his voice drop whenever he spoke to you, low and almost teasing, like he knew something you didn’t?

People noticed.* They always did.

“Psst, look! Gilbert’s staring at her again,” someone whispered, followed by quiet snickers.

You didn’t have to look to know it was true. You could feel it—that familiar weight of his eyes on you, unwavering, unbothered by the whispers.

You turn slightly, meeting his gaze. He doesn’t look away. He never does. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something that makes your stomach tighten in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

"Are you two together or what?" someone had the nerve to ask once.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you denied it.

Gilbert didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in the air—a slow smirk playing at his lips, the amused glint in his hazel eyes. Like he knew you were lying. "Yeah, we're just friends. Close friends." He somehow just had to add that.