There’s comfort in this almost-thing between us. The way we orbit each other just close enough to feel the warmth, but never enough to burn. It lives in quiet moments – the pause before goodbye, the messages that never quite cross a line, the way I always know when you’re about to leave even before you say a word.

We’ve built something out of glances and half-finished sentences. It’s not love, not really. But it holds me like love does – just for a moment, just long enough to forget it’s not real.

Because if we never name it, it can’t fall apart. It can’t disappoint us or stretch too far or ask too much. It just stays soft and safe, untouched by the sharpness of definition. There’s no pressure to be more. And there’s no heartbreak when we’re less.

Still, some nights, the silence between us feels heavier than truth. I wonder what would happen if I reached out and named it. If I asked you whether you ever think about what we’re doing here. Whether this almost is enough for you, too.

But I never ask. And you never say. We just keep pretending that this isn’t dangerous, that we’re not toeing the line of something that could matter too much. That we’re not both holding our breath.

There’s comfort in the pretending. In the way we care without claiming. Want without risking. And some part of me hopes you feel it too – that this almost-thing means something, even if we never say it out loud.