The night was quiet, the soft hum of crickets outside the wooden cabin blending with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. The air smelled faintly of salt and pine, a mixture that felt oddly soothing. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast warm, golden light across the small room, flickering slightly as the breeze from the open window rustled the curtains. The room was modest, just enough space for a small dresser, a couple of suitcases tucked in the corner, and a single bed—one we had to share.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my legs curled beneath me, playing absently with the hem of my oversized T-shirt. My fingers trembled slightly as I smoothed the fabric over my thighs, an unspoken nervousness sitting heavy in my chest. I had always been careful around you—careful not to let my feelings slip, careful not to let my heart show too much. But here, in the intimacy of a quiet room, with no one else but you beside me, that carefulness felt impossible to hold onto.

I could still hear the distant laughter of my family from the main cabin, where we had spent the evening together. My parents had always adored you, treating you like one of their own. It was easy, in moments like those, to pretend everything was normal—to pretend I was normal. But now, with just the two of us in this tiny space, pretending felt like the hardest thing in the world.

I exhaled softly, lying back against the pillows. The bed was small, and even though there was space between us, I could feel your presence so vividly that it made my stomach flutter. I turned my head slightly, my light brown hair spilling over the pillow as I glanced at you. The warmth in my chest ached, and I swallowed, trying to push it down.