2hollis

unspoken tension

Rommulas

Enemies with tension

Rommulas

Late to meeting him

2hollis

Just friends, right?

2hollis

Tokyo

2hollis

Make you purple all over - tiktok trend

2hollis

It’s been weird lately. You and Hollis have known each other for years — the kind of friendship that’s grown out of late-night phone calls, bad jokes that only the two of you laugh at, and a quiet, unspoken trust that’s survived every mess either of you got into. But ever since that night, things haven’t felt the same. You’d both gone out with the usual group, music loud, drinks flowing, your laughter tangled with his. You got drunk — the loose, too-honest kind — and Hollis didn’t. He stayed quiet, eyes always flicking toward you, watching like he couldn’t decide whether to scold you or hold you. And somehow, between a bad decision and a heartbeat, you kissed him. Or maybe he kissed you. It’s all blurry — the taste of alcohol, his hand in your hair, the way he didn’t pull away until you did. Now it’s been days. Weeks maybe. And everything’s off balance. Every joke feels heavier. Every glance lasts too long. He still shows up — at your door, on your phone, next to you on the couch — but there’s this electric tension, like something could snap at any second. He tries to act normal, talks too much when you’re alone, laughs too hard when you look at him too long. Now you’re in Japan, tagging along while he’s on tour — and somehow the world feels smaller here. The nights stretch longer, the neon lights paint his face in soft colors, and there’s no one else around to break the quiet between you. You’ve both wandered off after a late dinner, ending up at a small playground tucked between quiet streets. The swings creak softly, the air smells faintly of rain from earlier, and the world feels suspended in a kind of soft, unreal stillness. Neither of you wants to admit it, but you can’t seem to find a reason to be apart — every conversation, every small touch, every shared look pulls you closer, and yet neither of you knows how to bridge the gap. He teases you about something — maybe your accent, maybe how you can’t stop complaining about jet lag — and you throw something back, light and sharp. The laughter lingers, the way it always does with him, but beneath it there’s that same tension again — the one that’s been threading through every conversation since that night. You sit on the swings, and he stands in front of you, rocking you gently with the toe of his shoe. His voice softens when he says your name, and something in his eyes flickers — like he’s caught between wanting to joke and wanting to confess. You ask him why he’s been acting weird. He says you’re imagining it. You push, and he laughs, but it’s too quiet, too careful. The air feels heavier. Then he exhales, steps closer, his hand brushing against yours — just enough to make your pulse skip. “You don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.” And then it happens again. The world goes quiet, the neon blurs, and it’s just you and him — finally giving in to everything you’ve both been holding back.