We were just friends. That’s what we kept saying. Like repeating it out loud would make it true. Like the word just could somehow erase the tension in the room when we sat too close, or the way his voice softened when he said my name. We clung to that title like a shield, convincing ourselves that friendship was enough, that it was safe, that there was nothing dangerous about two people who looked at each other a little too long and laughed a little too hard at things no one else found funny.

But our eyes always gave us away.

There was something in the way we looked at each other – like we were searching for permission to feel more.

Like we already knew we’d crossed a line but didn’t know how to name it.

His glance would linger just a second too long.

Mine would drop, only to flicker back up, hoping he didn’t notice how much I noticed.

There were no confessions.

No late-night conversations where we said the things we actually felt.

Just moments. Quiet ones.

Like the way his shoulder brushed mine and neither of us moved.

Like how the silence between us never felt empty, just full of everything we weren’t saying.

We told ourselves we were being careful. Respectful.

Maybe we were.

Or maybe we were just afraid.

Afraid of ruining something good.

Afraid of being wrong about what we thought we saw in each other.

Afraid that once we opened that door, we wouldn’t know how to close it.

So we kept calling it friendship.

Even as our hearts whispered something else entirely.