“We’re just friends”

“We’re just friends,” they say as lingering touches and fleeting looks drag their way over faces and fingertips for what feel like millennia to witness. Laughter harmonious as two try to ring the other of such graceful sound. Lips stretch from ear to ear as the voice of another melts into their ears, and eyes crinkle at their corners when caught face to face. 

I wonder if everyone else is just blissfully blinded as to what is right in front of them. Or perhaps, if the pair themselves believe that we are blind. Perhaps they believe we don’t truly see them sitting so viscerally out in the open, or instead do they believe that their feelings still remain platonic? I know in my heart that the latter is the most likely observation as I watch the way they traipse around one another, the way they carry themselves with a wavering confidence draped over budding nerves. 

"We're just friends," they defend, believing every word, even after the raised brows and partial smirks plaster themselves over the faces of everyone they know. They’re just friends, but if you asked either of them what the others eye colour was, it wouldn’t be an answer of a simple green or a cool blue. nstead, they would look at their feet or anywhere that isn’t directly at you, just in case you noticed that quirk in their brow or the way their lips begged to smile. 

He says to me, and I quote:

“Blue like the ocean on a cold winters day.”, slipping from the lips of a man who looked as though he didn’t even have to think about it, that such precise and poetic expertise fell from his lips and a hum resonated from his throat as though he’s recalling a pleasant memory. One of the sounds of waves gently smacking against one another as the wind whistled over desaturated sand in the December glow. 

I remember the way he spoke, so gently and full of warmth, though would instantly go on to defend that he says the same to everyone. Which, might I add, is quickly divulged as a lie when I followed up by asking about the eye colour of our mutual friend, to which he not only got the colour wrong, but also stammered over trying to make it sound poetic in nature. His passion for words appear to only lie on that of his muse, apparent to himself

Recalling the moment, I asked the other the same question on another occasion to tell me the eye colour of his “friend”. 

“Green”, he tells me. Plain and simple. Before he interjects with a continuation. “But not a sunny green….you know the colour of the grass after there has been a storm outside? Kind of like that.” 

I find myself smiling as I look away, wondering if they do it on purpose. They had to be, surely they couldn’t be so invisible to one another while talking about the latter as though they were the most precious things they had ever seen. They both describe each other with such a wholesome nature, considering their words carefully while also never having to think about it, yet when asked about it will defend they are simply descriptive, being truthful and insightful. 

When we’re all together, a group of five, we find ourselves split into cliques. The two oblivious lovebirds, and then me and our friends. We exchange looks as the pair split desserts with one another, announcing:;

“You have to taste this!” As one places his spoon into the mouth of another man, watching the way the other hums at the taste of the blueberry cheesecake, before compensating the other with a spoonful of his chocolate lava cake, to which a similar reaction unfolds, humming with a pleasantry as the pair then insist they must share what is left of both of their plates.

I glance at my friend opposite me, who looks over from their ice cream sundae as our lips both curl into smiles while we attempt to hide our laughter, and I wish I could say it was the only time we find ourselves exchanging conversation with our eyes, but it happens more often than not. We ask each other without physically speaking, ‘are you seeing this?’ With raised brows and a tilt of a head before slight giggles fall from our lips, having to quickly pretend we’re looking at our phones or telling a joke in fear of catching the attention of the pair. But, they don’t even look our way. Too entrapped in each other's aura and gaze to notice the world around them. 

I wonder if their words are truthful. If maybe they are just friends, though I find it incredibly difficult to believe. Their chemistry could be something studied by the biggest romancers in literature and they would still deny it. But- maybe they’re just friendly and kind souls, comfortable in their skin and sexuality, the best of friends. I try to convince myself that they’re telling the truth, but not a single thing fits with what they say. I’ve had close friends before in my life and not once have I been described with more thought than what was actually there. Not once have I felt a connection with another human that was portrayed the way they view one another. 

“We’re just friends” They say, but I’ve caught them curled up asleep on my couch when we hosted game night at my place. They’re just friends, but I notice that twinkle in their eyes when they notice each other coming to our decided meeting spot, the way their body language changes to the giddy excitement when they are brought together again. They’re just friends, but are on each other's home screens. Not the lockscreen, no, that would be too obvious. They're just friends but will find any excuse or reason to stand close together and carefully touch their fingers together in hopes that no one notices. 

They’re just friends. 

And a bigger lie has never been told.