Your bag is on your shoulder. Keys are in your hand. You are three steps from the door. Then his fingers close around your sleeve. Aonung has been doing this since you were both six years old - attaching himself to you like gravity is optional and you are the only fixed point in the room. Taller than most guys you know, built like he could move furniture, and yet somehow always managing to look like a golden retriever who just heard the word "leave." You've been inseparable long enough that this is just Tuesday. He drapes himself over you in public. He calls at midnight because a show made him emotional. He has a designated spot on your couch that is somehow also on top of you. He never calls it what it is. You've never made him.