More than This

We were friends first. Isn’t that always the best way? A guaranteed foundation of trust and someone who knows you entirely. Because, without trust, what is romance anyways?

At least, that’s what I was always told.

Friendship is a safe place, a history written in inside jokes, old pictures, and shared memories. In embarrassing moments like the time you snorted milk out your nose. It’s the certainty that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much life changes, some people will always be your people. It’s a time capsule of memories that you build together. It’s honesty, even when the truth is not something you want to hear. It’s showing up, not just in the big moments like our graduations, but in the small, unspoken ones. The text that says, "This reminded me of you," a small reminder that they know you better than most people in the world. 

It wasn't supposed to shift like this, to blur at the edges, to toe the line between like and lust and to turn into something that made my heart race in ways it never had before. But lately, it lingers differently. The warmth is still there, but now it comes with something unspoken, something heavier. The familiar comfort of being seen hasn’t changed, but the way your heart stutters when their name appears on your screen—that’s new. The nervousness of seeing her again, the stammers of my heart when she smiles. 

I start reading between the lines, wondering if she does the same. Does she hesitate before hitting send? Does she catch herself smiling at a thought of me the way I do with her? The messages feel the same, but something has shifted in the space between words, in the silence that follows.

Something has changed.

I don’t know when I started to feel this way. Perhaps it was always there, building up beneath the surface of us. A niggling spark waiting to grow and expand. Or maybe it was the way she pulled me close in the middle of a crowded room, interlocking our hands so we wouldn’t be parted. The way her fingers tightened around mine—instinct, not thought. A simple gesture, meant to anchor us together in the chaos. But I felt it then and forevermore, a flicker of something deeper. A warmth in the pit of my stomach. 

Maybe it was the way her laughter curled around me like warmth on a cold day, or the way she always noticed the small things—how I tapped my legs when I was anxious and how certain songs made me go quiet. It was in the familiarity, the ease, the way she saw me so effortlessly. 

It wasn’t sudden, like lightning. It was slow, creeping in like the tide—pulling me deeper before I even realized I was drowning. It wrapped around me in quiet moments, in shared glances that lingered just a second too long, in the way my name sounded softer when she said it.

No grand declaration, no single moment of revelation—just a steady shift, so gradual I didn’t notice until it was everywhere.

By the time I understood what it was, it had already settled in my bones. A part of me. There was no before and after, no clear line where friendship ended and something more began. There was only her, and the way she had become a part of me without even trying.

But there was a problem.

We were friends first. That was the foundation, the thing that made everything easy, effortless. A safety net built over years of knowing each other inside and out. Crossing that line meant there was no going back. No undoing it, no pretending we hadn’t stepped into something new. 

And yet, I knew. I knew in the way my heart reacted to her voice, the way my stomach twisted when her name appeared on my phone screen. In the way I caught myself watching her, her easy smile, as if I hadn’t known her forever. It wasn’t something I was willing to ignore anymore. It wasn’t something I could push aside as fleeting or insignificant. Something I could banish into the abyss of my mind. 

I wanted more than this.

But wanting her wasn’t the same as having her. And having meant taking a risk—one that could shatter everything we had carefully built. This could ruin us. Stain our echoes in time that took years to build. Dampening the mood of all of our favorite places, places I was sure I could never return to. 

So I had to ask myself: Was it worth it? And if it was, was I okay with losing her entirely?

Would losing her as a friend be worth the chance of something more? Would I rather live with the ache of never knowing, or the possibility of ruining the one thing that had always been certain?

The thought of losing her—truly losing her—made my chest tighten like an arrow snaked it’s way to my heart. She was woven so heavily into the fabric of my life, threaded through every memory, every inside joke. She was my home among houses.  

And yet, the thought of never telling her felt almost as unbearable. Like I was lying to the one person who’d never lie to me. 

If I stayed silent, the pretense would become a slow, suffocating thing, wrapping itself around me tighter with each passing day. The weight of it would settle deep in my chest, pressing against every breath, every unspoken thought. It would seep into the way I looked at her—eyes lingering just a moment too long, tracing the curve of her. It would show in the way my voice faltered when I spoke her name, in the way my fingers twitched with the restless need to close the ever-narrowing space between us. No matter how much I tried to bury it, the truth would find a way to rise.

The truth was already there, lurking beneath the surface. It was only a matter of time before it spilled out.

So maybe the real question wasn’t whether I should risk it.

Maybe the real question was whether I could live with myself if I didn’t.

With a heavy heart and a deep breath, I had made my decision. 

I chose her.

Not in a fleeting way, not as a moment of reckless impulse, but as something certain—something that had been growing inside me long before I ever had the courage to name it. I chose her in every lingering glance, in every laugh that echoed between us, in every moment where silence felt safer than honesty. But I was done hiding.

I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard, my heart pounding so loudly it drowned out every rational thought. The message was simple—just a few words—but my hands shook uncontrollably as I typed them. Because once I hit send, there was no taking it back.

Me: Can we meet?

I stared at the screen in horror, watching the message turn from “delivered” to “read.” Maybe this wasn’t a good idea? A lump formed in my throat. She was there, looking at it. Thinking. 

Then, after a few minutes for her but an endless eternity for me, the typing bubbles appeared.

Disappeared.

Came back.

My breath caught as her reply finally came through.

Her: Of course. Where?

I exhaled sharply, relief and nerves tingling in my chest. Determined to do this, I reply.

Me: Our spot?

Her: Give me ten minutes.

That was it. No hesitation, no questions—just an agreement. A choice.

I stared at her words, my mind racing. She had no idea what I was about to say. No idea that everything between us was about to shift.

And yet, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid. I knew I could do this because we were always meant to be more than this. 

I grabbed my jacket, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.