More Than Friends, Less Than Lovers
The twilight spills through the car window, you tap the steering wheel to the rhythm of silence. “Another late night,” you say, but your thumb lingers on the gearshift, an inch from my hand. The radio hums a song we both pretend not to know—the one that says “almost” in three different chords.We’ve memorized each other’s coffee orders, the way you皱起眉头 when I laugh too loud, how I bite my lip before asking if you’re seeing someone. Last week you lent me your jacket, and I still smell the pine on the collar; yesterday I found your pen in my bag, the one with the chipped cap you always misplace. You text me good morning before your alarm goes off, call me “kid” when I’m being stubborn, but when I ask if we’re more than friends, you say, “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”
The lyrics play on repeat: *“We’re standing on the edge of something real, but neither one of us wants to feel the fall.”* You once told me you’re scared of breaking what we have, like a vase that’s perfectly balanced on the edge of a shelf. But I’ve seen you stare at my mouth when I talk, watched your breath catch when our knees brush under the table. Last night, you walked me to my door, and for a second, I thought you’d lean in. Instead, you ruffled my hair and said, “Sleep tight.”
They say English songs love the in-between—*almost*, *maybe*, *someday*. Our story is a playlist of those words. You keep a photo of us in your wallet, the one where we’re both squinting at the beach, salt in our hair. I have a voice memo of you singing off-key in the shower, saved in a folder labeled “Don’t Delete.” We’re two people collecting moments that feel like confessions, but never quite cross the line.
The song fades, and you turn to me. “What if we…” you start, then trail off, staring at the dashboard. The streetlights flash in your eyes, and I wonder if you’re thinking the same thing: that “almost” might be better than “never,” but “what if” is heavier than any song.
We drive on, the silence now a language we both speak. Somewhere between the chorus and the next verse, I realize—this is the part they don’t write about in love songs. Not the beginning, not the end, but the middle: where your hand hovers over mine, and “more than friends” feels like a promise we’re both too scared to keep.