Page 80 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
Ava: Did you melt?
Maya: I laughed so hard I cried. But yes, I melted. Shut up.
Maya: Liam kissed my shoulder when he thought I was asleep.
Ava: UGH STOP IT THAT’S SO INTIMATE I CAN’T BREATHE
Maya: Ethan brought me a hardcover of that out-of-print poetry book I told him about once. ONCE.
Ava: Marry him.
Maya: Which one?????????
Sometimes she sends a whole chain of caps-locked screaming. Sometimes it’s just one quiet line.
Ava: Are you okay?
That’s the one that guts me, because for all the glitter and glow and longing, the fear is still there. Pressed just under the surface.
There are moments. Like when I catch Liam watching Ethan when he thinks no one’s looking, his expression soft with something that isn’t just friendship.
Or the way Jake’s sarcasm always fades into something tender when Liam rolls his eyes and mutters a dry comeback. Or how Ethan watches us all like he’s waiting for someone to figure out a truth he doesn’t know how to say.
Some nights, it feels like I’m floating.
Like we’re suspended in the golden light of something pure. I lie in bed between them—Ethan’s hand resting over my heart, Jake curled into my side, Liam’s fingers laced with mine above the covers.
Their breathing steadies me.
And I think,if this is wrong… maybe I don’t want to be right.
But that thought carries teeth. Because the truth is—we can’t hide forever. And what we are… it doesn’t fit inside neat little boxes. It doesn’t make sense in polite conversations or Instagram captions.
So we keep our secret. We tuck ourselves into quiet corners. Morning pancakes made together in my kitchen—Jake burning everything, Liam rolling his eyes, Ethan kissing my shoulder as he pours the juice.
It’s chaotic. It’s beautiful. It’s ours.
***
The quiet is comfortable tonight.
The overhead light is off, just a table lamp provides a golden glow across the living room. Rain whispers against the windows, a gentle rhythm that matches Ethan’s breathing beside me.
The Thai food is half-eaten. The wine bottle is mostly empty. My head rests on his shoulder as a documentary about deep-sea bioluminescence plays, low and droning.
Ethan smells like cedar and clean cotton, like the soap he keeps in my shower that I’ve started using just to feel closer to him when he’s not here.
It should feel perfect.
But the silence… it opens doors I’ve been trying to keep shut.
What happens when this stops being new? When the shine wears off and the cracks show? What happens when one of them decides they need something simpler—someone simpler?
What happens when I’m no longer enough for three people trying so hard to love me the right way?
Ethan shifts slightly, reaches for the wine glass, and glances at me. “Want more?”
“Sure,” I say, voice a little too quiet.
