a loose interpretation of a sandwich

Just friends.

That's what I tell people when they ask why Frankie Morales knows my drink order better than I do. Or why the quiet man with the soulful eyes finally loosens up in my presence.

Just friends.

That's what I tell myself when he calls me on his drive home because he saw a sunset and thought I'd like it. When he leaves little voice messages that say absolutely nothing important but still do.

When he texts me that he made it home. As if I was waiting to know. As if he knows I was.

Just friends.

When he remembers things nobody else does. The anniversary that makes me quiet. The song I always skip. The way thunderstorms make me nervous. The fact that I need the TV on to sleep when my head gets too loud. That I am the only person who knows about the ghosts he carries like luggage.

Just friends.

When I find myself looking for his truck before I even get out of my car at any gathering. When a room feels wrong until he's in it. When something good happens and his name appears in my mind before anyone else's. When no one apart from me knows the shape of his loneliness.

Just friends.

When he says my name in that soft, careful way he does that makes my stomach flip. Like he's holding something fragile. Something far more than words. And when I say his, his eyes crinkle in a laugh bright enough to feel like sunlight.

Just friends.

Until one night we're sharing a bed because life has a funny sense of humor and we're adults who can handle it, right ?

Just friends.

With a pillow between us that feels like a whole ocean. I fall asleep facing the wall and he falls asleep facing the other direction. Until somewhere in the middle of the night, while the world is quiet enough to tell the truth, our bodies betray us.

Just two tired people reaching for comfort.

And when we both wake with only the sun as our witness, neither of us moves. His arm is still around my waist. My hand is still curled against his chest. Neither of us says a word.

Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else.

This is a little different than what I usually write, but my bestie @rhapsodyofdarkness gently nudged(read: bullied) me into publishing this, so there you go.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

🥺

📹 hbomaxuk IG

---Jack Whiskey had few weaknesses in life. Soft leather, a nice pair of Levi's, and his three year old niece.

"Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!" She screamed, hopping towards him with sticky hands and Kool aid stains above her lips. Her plastic dress-up shoes clacked on the floor. "Tomorrow is my birthday!"

"I know it is, sweetheart!" He beamed down at her. "Are you excited?"

She didn't so much answer him as expel a long, sharp squeal from every muscle in her body.

this was adorable! and far more wholesome than my head went with that prompt.

…and the vet was like, “You know the thing with geriatric cats is—” and I was like, “What do you mean, geriatric?! It’s a little baby, look at her!" Kumail Nanjiani: Night Thoughts (2025)

The god damn suspenders FUCCCCKKKKK