Frequent visits, but never being claimed.
His house became my second home,
But not because I was invited.
Because I was always there.
I knew which switch controlled the socket by the fridge.
The plate he preferred for noodles.
The exact sound his bathroom door made when it didn't shut right.
He never said, "Stay over."
He just stopped asking me to leave.
At first, it felt like something.
Sleeping over turned into whole weekends.
I brought my skincare, my meds, and a few spare clothes.
I learned to make his bed the way he liked it.
I memorized where he kept the cereal.
I refilled the water in the fridge when it got low.
And the days he had headaches or stress from work, I moved quietly, tiptoeing like a tenant in my own longing.
He never introduced me to anyone.
When someone came over, I'd hide in the room or become "just a friend."
When the guys called him to come hang, he never said, "I'm with someone."
He just said, "I'm good."
Once, when I left my lip gloss on his table, he moved it before his friend came.
That was the moment it clicked.
I wasn't supposed to leave traces.
I wasn't supposed to be seen.
I was meant to fit into his space like air, invisible but present.
Still, I kept showing up.
Because sometimes he made dinner.
Sometimes he said, "You eat?" with that soft rasp in his voice.
Sometimes we shared a cup of cold fruit juice and it tasted like forgiveness.
I remember one night, he made shawarma at home.
From scratch.
Just because I said I'd been craving it.
We ate on the bed with a movie playing we didn't finish.
He said nothing sweet. Nothing deep.
But in that moment, I felt… held.
And when you're starving, crumbs can feel like a feast.
But deep down, I knew:
This wasn't my home.
This was just where I was allowed to be, when it worked for him.