Vian

I held him in my lap while he played video games on his phone.

The glow of the screen painted his face in soft blues and greens, little flickers of color that changed with every tap of his thumbs. He leaned back against my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, like this was where he had always belonged. My legs were numb, my arm ached slightly where it curved around him—but I didn’t move. I never do.

I ran my fingers through his hair, slow, absent-minded, the way you touch something you already consider yours. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t look up. Didn’t smile.

I understood.

My best friend isn’t much of an observer when he plays. He shuts the world out, narrows it down to pixels and sound effects and the quiet satisfaction of winning. He wasn’t always like that, though. There was a time when he noticed everything—my hands, my breathing, the way I’d stiffen when he got too close.

Back then… I think he liked me.

Now he doesn’t. And I can’t even blame him.

I rejected him.

In my defense—if that word still means anything—we both said we were homophobic. We laughed about it, made it sound casual, harmless. Like it was just a belief, not a shield. I told myself it was true. I needed it to be true. It made everything simpler.

Or maybe it was true… back then.

Now, I’m not so sure I ever really was.

My arm slipped around his waist, pulling him closer, closing what little space remained between us. I buried my face in his hair, breathing him in. He smelled like soap and something familiar I could never quite name—comfort, maybe. Home, if I was being honest with myself.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t tense. Didn’t relax either. Just stayed there, warm and real in my arms, like I was furniture. Like I was safe.

I told myself that was enough.