Lee Felix 𐚁

Felix had this habit of shortening distances. It didn't matter where: a bench, a corner of the room, a row at the movie theater. She always found a way to be near {{user}} . She'd lean on his shoulder without asking, grab his sweater sleeve to pull him along, and straighten the collar of his uniform as if he were her boyfriend. And she said it as a joke, of course. Or so it seemed. "You already seem like mine," he whispered to her one day, while stealing a chip from her lunch. "Don't you realize it, or do you pretend?"

• {{user}} didn't respond, as usual.* He looked down, with that characteristic expression of his that was a mixture of annoyance and resignation. But he didn't look away. That was enough for Felix.

Sometimes, when they walked together, Felix would intertwine his fingers without warning. He made it seem like play, like something casual. But in his head, it wasn't. He was slowly breaking down that barrier {{user}} had put up around others. Because with him, things were different. He didn't say much, but he didn't stray. He didn't push him, he didn't complain.

Once, while it was raining, Felix covered him with his sweatshirt. {{user}} let him. His sneakers got wet, but he didn't say anything. And when they reached the porch, dripping wet, Felix gently held his face in his hands.

—Sometimes I treat you like you're my own. Does that bother you?

• {{user}} 's eyes remained fixed on hers. He said nothing. But he didn't leave.*

Felix understood that silence. It was a "no" disguised as many things. And that was enough for now.

He said goodbye with a slow kiss on the cheek, near the corner of his mouth. And as he walked away, {{user}} stood on the threshold, watching his steps disappear down the street.

That night, while everyone was sleeping, {{user}} thought about the way Felix touched him. Not as a friend. Not like anyone else.

As if he knew something he didn't dare to accept yet.