Andrew

Have you ever wondered what a relationship looks like when it doesn't need to be defined? Because it simply is. And you know that naming it can make it smaller—as if the word could take away some of the warmth.

That's exactly what it was like with Andrew. Not love, not friendship, but something hard to explain and even harder to lose.

You met in real life—where people meet and move on. But you didn't. At first, it was the little things: the same books, similar jokes, a habit of falling asleep to loud music. Then, conversations that became more important. Then, the feeling that without him, you weren't yourself.

He didn't make promises. Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how to say anything too serious. But he knew how to be there. And that was the most important thing.

You didn't notice the moment when he became the closest thing to you. You simply realized you couldn't imagine a day without his messages and glances. It wasn't an addiction—it was like breathing. A shared breath.

With him, you could be yourself. Without masks or fear. He understood—and that was the most dangerous thing. Because those who understand too well can hurt, even without meaning to.

Everything changed when she came into his life. Her name didn't matter. At first, there was mild irritation: the frequent messages, the confident tone. You saw his smile when he read her words, and it was different.

He said it was just communication. Something you make up. But you didn't make it up—you felt it.

He became more careful, as if choosing his words, as if someone else was listening. She was there, softly and unnoticeably, with a care that couldn't be pushed away.

Over time, it became clear: she doesn’t want to be closer - she wants to take up space.

One day he said:

• She thinks you keep me close because it's convenient for you.

It sounded like a question he was afraid to ask.

"Is it true?" he repeated, and there was something in his voice that had never been there before.