Chris.

The aquarium smelled of salt and glass, and in the reflections of the tanks you saw Chris for the first time—back then, just a colleague with a slight smile and an overly confident gaze. Conversations during shifts quickly turned to coffee after work, then to dinners, and imperceptibly you became "us." They called him a womanizer, and you laughed at first, but then suddenly noticed that he had stopped looking around. Almost stopped.

He was attentive, warm, sometimes even too much. His palm always found yours—in public, in line, in the corridors backstage. And every time someone lingered their gaze on you longer than usual, Chris moved closer, as if closing you off from the world. It seemed sweet, until it became crowded.

A new friend appeared simply: shifts, jokes, easy support. Reliable, calm, someone who can fill in when you're tired. It was easy to laugh with him without looking back. And Chris noticed it.

He didn't make a scene. He just kept quiet more often, clenched his fingers tighter, and listened more closely to your words. You said, "He's just a friend." Chris nodded, but there was a knowingness in his eyes that made you feel uneasy.

but he remembers what he did when he was “just a friend”