Rose invited herself over again.
Not that she had to.
"Do your parents know?" I asked.
She nodded. "They don't love it. But they didn't stop me."
That was enough.
We made instant noodles.
Not the cute, aesthetic kind. The real kind kettle-boiled water, flimsy plastic bowls, and the flavor packets that stain your fingers.
Rose insisted on putting cheese in hers.
"Don't judge me," she said, grinning.
"I already am," I replied, but I was smiling too.
She stole one of my fish cakes anyway.
My room was dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the small lamp on my desk. We'd pushed the blankets onto the floor like we used to when we were kids a lazy sort of nest made of tangled limbs and shared pillows.
We laid side by side, legs barely touching, the night stretching out like a secret.
Rose spoke first.
"Do you ever think about the past?"
"All the time."
"Like… how we got here?"
I looked over at her. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lashes catching the light like shadowy wings.
"I think," I said, "that loving you snuck up on me. But once I noticed, I realized I'd been doing it forever."
She didn't say anything at first.
Then, softly: "Me too."
At some point we stopped talking.
Not because we ran out of things to say but because silence with her wasn't empty.
She shifted closer. Her head rested on my shoulder.
One arm curled over my waist, her fingers drawing slow circles into my shirt.
"Kellie," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I like who I am with you."
I swallowed. My chest ached, but in the best way.
"I like who you are all the time."
She smiled into my neck. "Liar."
"No. Just the only one who sees it."
We fell asleep like that. Her breath steady. Her heartbeat slow. My arm numb, but I didn't dare move.
And sometime around 3 a.m., when the room was quiet and the moonlight spilled over the window
She kissed my shoulder.
Not to wake me.
Just to say it again, without words.
That she was here.
That she was mine.
That she wasn't leaving.