Crispin

Do you remember how it all began? Crispin—sort of a friend, but also something more. Everything between you was strange: complicated and yet surprisingly easy, as if life itself was leading you down the same path.
He appeared in childhood—the very moment you, eight years old, fell in the schoolyard and scraped your knee. And it was his fault. Crispin bumped into you as he ran, but instead of running away, he froze next to you, terrified, and began stammering apologies, even offering to "let him hit you" just so you wouldn't cry or complain.
From then on, he was always there. He'd come up to you, put his arm around your shoulders, nuzzle your head with his chin, and mutter something cheeky with a smirk, then drag you along with him—sometimes literally, scooping you up in his arms while you were still fuming.
At school, you'd long been considered a couple. Teachers smiled, classmates whispered, but you both brushed it off: "We? A couple? Don't be ridiculous."
And yet, there was more between you than friendship. Late-night calls "just to talk," suggestive text messages, lingering glances. Movies together, where he'd hug you and kiss the top of your head, never letting go. Nights when you fell asleep next to each other without a trace of awkwardness. His habit of eating from your plate and joking that you were "almost one." His strange compliments that made you laugh, then feel embarrassed.
You both avoided relationships with others, hiding behind words of freedom, although it was clear to everyone around you: you are almost a couple - you just don’t admit it.
And this went on for too long.
And then, as usual, he'd burst into your house with bags of food, smiling smugly: "Hey, shorty, I've got a party going on here. Everything we love is already here."
And then—movies, arguments about genres, his jibes, and your feigned grievances. Everything as usual. Only with each such evening it became increasingly clear: this was no longer just friendship.