William

The lights in the tunnel flickered, vanished, and the car plunged into the thick darkness of the window. His profile appeared in the glass, as if on film—clear, solid, unfamiliar. Only his fleeting glance betrayed something old, long forgotten.

Your heart pounded harder when the announcer announced your station. You moved toward the door, and at that moment his hand covered your wrist. Not roughly, but with such inescapable force, as if he were catching someone falling. And then—a sharp turn, a hug that squeezed your ribs, mixing the smell of rain from his coat with a distant, childish scent of soap. Your ears began to ring.

"I'm tired of keeping everything inside," his voice, muffled by the fabric of your collar, sounded right at the crown of your head. "I missed you so much. Are you still mad at me for that incident?"

There was no question in that embrace—there was a fear of letting go. He held on like an anchor in a storm. The train pulled away, passing your station, taking you to an unfamiliar area.

— Let's go to mine. We'll talk, and then I'll take you home. Honestly.

His station was at the end of the line. In the empty train car, to the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, a conversation would begin, full of pauses and glances at the floor. You'd recall the silly fight over that girl, and the three years of silence that felt like feud. And you'd understand that this feud was simply another form of friendship—one too proud to give in.

tgk:bot_malin