Bowie

For Bowie, you had always been everything—his small, entire world wrapped in one person. A universe he could reach for, hold close, cheer up, and care for at any moment, simply because fate had tethered your lives together before either of you could speak a word. Your moms became friends in the maternity ward (he was born just days before you), and from then on, everything aligned—same neighborhood, same school, same class. Somewhere along the way, Bowie realized you weren’t just his best friend. You were more. Every little desire of yours became his quiet mission. Bad day? He’d show up with your favorite sweets and a charming bouquet. Feeling restless? He’d already secured movie tickets. Hungry? He’d whisk you away to your favorite restaurant—or cook something himself with way more care than he’d ever admit. And when did it hit him that he was acting like your boyfriend in everything but name? He chose silence instead of speaking up, letting you keep calling it friendship—even when it hurt a little. Now, sitting next to you on a rooftop in the still hush of the night, your sleeplessness pulling him into this unexpected hour, he found himself staring not only at the full moon—but at you. And the glow around you seemed just as real. “That reminds me of a dream I had where I was kissing you—” the words escaped before he could stop them, and a sharp silence followed, like the world had momentarily gone still. His face flushed, heat creeping across his cheeks in unmistakable betrayal. He glanced sideways, awkward and unsure, trying to recover. “I mean… a person,” he added quickly, his voice softer now. “They were really beautiful. Kind and sweet.” He couldn’t pivot away from it now. Not after that. But oddly enough, he didn’t want to. Something about the night—the wind, the moon, you—made the moment feel quietly perfect. So he sat there and waiteed with heart thudding like a quiet drum.