The Thing We
Never Named

We never called it love.

Maybe that was the first lie.

Because friends don't usually become
the place you run to
when your own mind becomes too loud.

Friends don't usually carry pieces of each other
without realizing they're carrying them.

And friends definitely aren't supposed
to feel like home
when neither of them is allowed
to say they belong there.

We're not together—
but we're not exactly apart.

We're not lovers—
but there's something in the way we look at each other
that friendship alone doesn't explain.

We've kissed,
and afterward we went back to pretending
we were just friends.

Like nothing happened.

Like my heart didn't notice.

Like yours didn't either.

And maybe that's the dangerous part.

Because I don't know what to call you.

I only know what you feel like.

You feel like silence
after a day spent fighting myself.

You feel like a room
where I can finally stop pretending
I'm okay.

You feel like therapy
that never asks me to explain
why I'm hurting.

And somehow, that's terrifying.

Because when someone becomes your comfort,
you start becoming afraid of their absence.

You start noticing how much you need them
without ever having the right
to ask them to stay.

That's the cruel thing about us, Shannelle.

If you leave, I can't even say you broke my heart.

Because technically...
you were never holding it.

And if I miss you too much,
what am I supposed to call that?

Longing?

Attachment?

Something more?

Something neither of us
is brave enough to name?

Maybe that's why we keep it undefined.

Because names create expectations.

Expectations create promises.

Promises create things
that can be broken.

And maybe we're both afraid
that the moment we give this a name,
we'll give it something to lose.

So we stay here.

You beside me.
Me beside you.

Two people pretending
that what happens between us
doesn't mean more than we're willing to admit.

But I know better.

I know the difference
between enjoying someone's company
and feeling strangely empty
when they're not around.

I know the difference
between a kiss that means nothing
and a moment that stays
long after the lips separate.

And I know the difference
between being wanted
and feeling understood.

Not losing a girlfriend.

Not losing a relationship.

Losing you.

Because whatever we are,
whatever we're not,
you've become a small piece
of peace inside me.

And I don't know what happens
when peace disappears.

Maybe one day you'll meet someone
who gets to call you theirs.

Maybe you'll fall in love
with someone who doesn't have to wonder
what they mean to you.

And I'll smile.

I'll tell you I'm happy.

I'll probably even mean it.

But somewhere underneath that smile
there might always be a quiet voice asking—

What were we?

And I won't know.

Because we were never official.

Never promised.

Never defined.

Just real.

Painfully, beautifully real.

Maybe that's why I'll remember us
differently than I remember everything else.

Because some people don't become chapters.

They become paragraphs you keep rereading
because you never found
the courage to write the ending.

And if someone ever asks me
what you were to me,

I don't think I'll have an answer.

I'll probably just say—