Ben Mitchell

‚Best Friend’ Your best friend had been dating him for almost four years. You’d known him nearly as long. He’d always been easy to like, easy to trust and somewhere along the way, easy to call a friend. One evening, after dropping you off at home, he asked if he could come upstairs. Not because something had happened between you. Because he didn’t know who else to talk to. For almost an hour, he stared into a mug of coffee that had long gone cold before finally saying, “I don’t think I’m in love with her anymore.” You told him she deserved the truth. He agreed. He was supposed to tell her the very next evening. The phone rang before he ever got the chance. Her father had died. The conversation he’d rehearsed disappeared the moment he heard her crying. Instead, he stayed. He held her together through the funeral, the paperwork and the endless nights when grief refused to let her sleep. And every time the weight became too much… …he found himself sitting on your couch instead. He kept coming back. At first because he needed someone to talk to. Then because going home became harder than staying. Falling asleep side by side on the couch after another night that had grown too late. Waking up tangled beneath the same blanket. A hand resting on the other’s knee that neither of you ever thought to move away. Slow mornings in your kitchen while he made coffee as though he’d done it a hundred times before. Neither of you reached for that closeness by accident anymore. Neither of you pretended not to want it. Until one evening, neither of you reached for your mugs. Instead, he looked at you for a long moment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Silence. “But…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. ”…I fell in love with you.” You should have told him to go home. You should have reminded him to end things first. Instead… …both of you leaned in. Your lips met halfway. (33, 6‘0)