LINES CROSSED. (BWWM)

22

Mason

The TV was on, but I hadn't heard a single word in the last hour. I was sitting on the couch, half-watching some old action movie, a half-eaten plate of wings in front of me. One wing. One bite. That was it. The rest just sat there getting cold.

I glanced at my phone again. No texts. No calls. No reason to expect either.

She told me—casually, like she was just mentioning a weather update—that Keith came back to the diner and asked her out again.

And that this time, she said yes.

I didn't ask why. Didn't make a face. Just nodded and said, "Cool."

Because that's what friends do, right?

They nod.
They smile.
They pretend their chest doesn't cave in when the person they want is walking out the door in a dress that's not for them.

I leaned my head back against the couch cushion and closed my eyes for a second. Just long enough to feel the heaviness in my chest settle like smoke. I thought two weeks would be enough to get used to the distance. To unlearn the way I used to reach for her out of habit. To remind myself that we were just friends again—platonically, responsibly, safely friends.

Friendship first. No exceptions.

We made that rule after we crossed a line and didn't want to get lost in lust, didn't want to forget the thing that mattered most. But now I was wondering if it was just a shield we built so we could both keep pretending that it was only sex.

That it wasn't love creeping in from the edges.

The clock ticked past 8:10. I could picture her sitting across from him at some polished-ass restaurant with too many forks on the table. Laughing at jokes that didn't really land. Smiling out of politeness. Pushing food around her plate when she didn't like what she ordered.

That's the kind of woman she was—the kind who wouldn't say anything just to avoid the awkwardness. Who'd swallow her discomfort with a smile because she hated confrontation more than she hated being misunderstood.

I knew that about her.

Hell, I knew everything about her.

Like the fact that she picked at her cuticles when she was unsure of herself. That her favorite part of the meal was always the side of fries, even if she claimed she wasn't hungry.

I knew her.

Keith... didn't.

And yeah, maybe that made me a little bitter. But it also made me scared. Scared that one day, she might stop missing me. That the idea of someone else might start to feel safer than whatever we were.

And if that happened... I didn't know who I'd be without her.

So I sat there in silence, with my untouched wings and a buzzing quiet in my head that wouldn't let me forget what I'd lost, even temporarily.

I didn't go out.
Didn't text her, even though my fingers hovered over her name more than once.
But I desperately needed a drink and blunt.

So I did.

I poured myself a drink with one hand and lit the blunt with the other, trying to pretend like I wasn't waiting on her. Like every sound outside wasn't making my head snap toward the door. Like I didn't keep checking my phone even though I told myself I wouldn't.

I took a slow pull, the familiar burn sliding down my throat, trying to settle the ache in my chest. It didn't. The ache had teeth tonight. It was gnawing at me, slow and steady.

I wasn't supposed to be doing this again.

Not the drinking. The smoking was to quiet my thoughts. I'd fought hard as hell to bury that version of me after my dad died. The one who drowned in bourbon and silence because it was easier than feeling everything all at once.

But lately... everything felt like too much.

I hadn't heard from Amina all day—not really. A short "headed to work" this morning. Nothing since. No call. No text. No "I'll see you later." And I hated how it got to me. How it felt like my chest caved in a little more with each passing hour.

She used to be the one thing I never had to question.

I took another hit, leaned back into the couch, and let the smoke curl out between my lips. My head buzzed, but my thoughts didn't slow down.

Was she pulling away more? Was this what we asked for when we said friendship first?

Because if it was, it felt a hell of a lot like losing her anyway.

I wanted to believe this space we were in was temporary. That we were just waiting for the dust to settle. But lately, it felt like she was adjusting too easily to this new normal—like she was learning how to live without me in ways I wasn't prepared for.

And here I was, lighting up again. Drinking again. Letting myself slip into old habits I thought I outgrew.

Because the truth is... I missed her.

Not just her body. Not just the way she used to whisper my name like it was hers to keep. I missed her. The comfort. The presence. The way just sitting next to her could silence everything in me.

And now, all I had was this blunt, this drink, and the echo of the silence she left behind.

And none of it came close.