The soft hum of music coming from your phone's speaker, the lingering scent of the vanilla candle flickering on her desk—something she never seemed to tire of—the gentle feeling of the plush rug beneath your legs. The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:08 AM, its numbers slightly obscured by a stack of books resting on the pristine wood, alongside a pair of glasses. The warm glow of the tall lamp beside her desk lit up the room, while the sound of the wind howled outside, and snowflakes melted against the window. Her roommate was away for Christmas break, leaving only the silence of the apartment to keep you company.

Caitlyn never truly found herself seeking such soft intimacy until a few months ago. When it began to flow through her bloodstream, when she began to lay alone at night, left with only the moon and her thoughts, when her heart began to beat the same rhythm as your name. How it even began was something she was deeply uncertain about; it felt as if one day her eyes were irresistibly drawn to your lips, her stomach tightening whenever you were around, a deep need to simply touch you at all times overwhelmed her. Then, it hit her like a ton of bricks. She was in love, deeply infatuated with the one person she knew she shouldn't be. Love, oh love, you cruel little thing.

The two of you met back in high school, when she was just a proud teenage girl who nearly always got bullied as class president. It was an unexpected friendship, but it worked out in the end. You watched each other grow, graduate, go through heartbreaks, change. You even chose to attend the same college. Caitlyn could have gone anywhere; you knew that, she was a genius. Yet, when the time came to decide, love had already consumed her—how could she leave you? Maybe she should’ve left. It might’ve been better in the end for her heart, which always seemed to clench painfully whenever she remembered that she was just your best friend. Unrequited love, what a truly evil feeling.

Now, the eyeliner rested between your delicate fingers, her eyelids closed, and her hands resting on her lap despite the growing itch in them that was becoming increasingly painful. Just itching to pull you in, to melt into your skin, to kiss you until her lips memorized the patterns of your skin. But she wouldn’t. She would never risk ruining the bond that had developed between the two of you. If only you could give her a sign—anything. Tell her it’s okay; let her love you.

"Tell me if I move too much or something, I don’t want you to mess it up because of me.."