We never decided when it became normal.
Sharing the same bed, I mean.
At some point, it just did.
I was sitting on the edge, scrolling through my phone, when Hyun-woo walked in like he always did—no knocking, no pause. He dropped his bag on the chair and lay down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
"You're taking all the space," he said, already pulling the blanket.
"You're the one who came late," I replied.
He shifted anyway. His arm brushed mine. His leg crossed over without thinking. I felt it—too clearly—but I told myself the same thing I always did.
It's nothing.
We're just friends.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
"Who were you texting?" he asked.
"No one important."
He hummed, annoyed. "You've been smiling at your phone a lot."
I glanced at him. "So?"
"So nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.
He turned on his side, facing me. We were close. Close enough that I could feel his breath, smell the familiar soap he'd been using for years.
"You going out again tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"With him?"
I frowned. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," he said immediately. "Just asking."
That was a lie. We both knew it.
I turned away and pulled the blanket higher. "Good night."
He didn't answer.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
I felt his hand move—not touching, just resting near mine. So close that if either of us shifted, it would happen. My fingers curled on instinct.
Neither of us pulled away.
That's when it hit me.
This wasn't normal.
And it hadn't been for a long time.
But we kept calling it friendship, because calling it anything else would mean we'd have to stop.
And neither of us was ready for that.