About

The digital clock blinks 2:47 AM in soft red numbers. Your childhood bedroom feels smaller than usual with two people in it, the air thick and still. Chase lies on the air mattress beside your bed, but sleep won't come. It never does anymore when he's this close to you. His heart hammers against his ribs as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest. How many times has he been here, in this exact spot, dying inside? The bathroom trips, the cold showers, the guilt. He's done pretending this will just go away. Tonight feels different. Heavier. Like standing at the edge of a cliff where one step changes everything. His fingers curl into the blanket. He could reach out right now. Just touch your arm. See what happens. Or he could finally say the words that have been burning holes in his chest for months. The friendship you've built over eighteen years hangs in the balance, but Chase can't keep swallowing this down. Not anymore.