Everyone already thought we were dating.

We laughed about it every time someone asked. “Please,” I would say, rolling my eyes. “He’s just my friend.” And he would nod, smiling too fast, acting like it didn’t matter, even though somehow the way he responded to that question mattered to me.

We were close in a way that made people uncomfortable. Always together. Always touching. We knew each other’s bad days and favourite songs. I liked him long before I admitted it to myself. Long before I let my body betray me.

That night at the club, we got drunk in the easy way friends do. We had Tequila. The music at the club was so loud.  I remembered his mouth close to my ear so I could hear him over the noise. I also remember laughing too much, dancing too close, his hands steadying my hips like it was normal.

One thing led to another. It always does.

We had sex.

That night at his place, when it was over, and I lay beside him, heart racing, body buzzing, telling myself not to imagine anything beyond this moment.

The next morning, we laughed.

That part hurt more than I expected.

We joked about how drunk we were. He pulled me into a hug, long and tight, the kind he always gave me. No awkwardness. No tension. Just us. Just friends. I told myself that was good. That was safe.

That was how everything started.

After that, I noticed everything more. The way he flirted like it meant nothing. The way he teased me about that night, leaning in too close, lowering his voice like it was our little secret. Sometimes he’d try to kiss me, playful, half-serious. And every time, my body responded before my mind could stop it.

To him, it was fun.

To me, it was hope.

I didn’t bring up the sex. I refused to. I didn’t want to sound needy. I didn’t want to be the girl who caught feelings first, the girl who ruined the friendship. So, I smiled. I laughed. I pretended it didn’t matter.

Until the day he told me he liked someone else.

Someone from his workplace.

He said it casually, like he was telling me about traffic or lunch. My chest tightened, but I kept my face calm. I even asked questions. I surprised myself with how well I played the role.

That night, I cried quietly in my room, replaying every touch, every look, every almost-kiss. I felt stupid for assuming. For believing sex meant something when nobody said it did.

Still, he kept flirting. Still, he acted like nothing had changed.

I wanted him again. God, I did. But not like that. Not as a mistake. Not as a drunk memory he could laugh about later.

I wanted him to want me on purpose.

So one evening, when he leaned in, teasing, lips hovering close to mine, I didn’t move. I looked at him and smiled softly.

“What exactly are we doing?” I asked.

He laughed softly, like it was a joke.

I didn’t laugh back.

“I want more,” I said. Louder this time. My voice was steady, even though my chest was shaking. “I can’t keep pretending this is nothing.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

“I care about you,” he said.

I nodded. I already knew that. Care was easy. Care was safe.

“But you like someone else,” I added quietly.

He didn’t deny it.

That was when I understood. The sex meant something to me because I wanted it to mean something. To him, it was just a moment we never named.

I stepped back before he could pull me close again.

“I don’t want half of you,” I said. “Not anymore.”

I don’t know how this story ends yet. Maybe he chooses me. Maybe he doesn’t. But I chose myself.

Finally accepting the fact that some loves don’t end with a kiss.

Some end with a sentence you were brave enough to say out loud.

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