(Lacy's POV)
"Sometimes, love doesn't come to you in grand declarations. Sometimes, it arrives in silence after it's gone."
It started with the silences.
Not the comfortable ones—the kind they used to sit in like an old sweater, warm and worn-in. These were different. Sharper. Stretched too long. Like someone had pulled the thread too far and didn't know how to stop unraveling.
Cal was still there. Still replied. Still laughed at the right times. Still showed up.
But something was missing. Or maybe something was being kept.
The replies grew shorter. Less color. Less weight.
The way he used to send three texts in a row—gone.
The way he used to send a dumb meme at midnight—gone.
The way he used to look at Lacy and not flinch when their knees touched—gone.
Lacy told himself it was nothing. People changed. Life got busy. He didn't want to be needy. He'd already lost Cal once—he wasn't going to lose him again just because he was afraid of quiet.
But the silence… it hurt in ways he didn't know how to name.
One night, Cal left his phone on the table while he went to the counter to grab their drinks. It buzzed once. Then again. A name lit up briefly: Selene.
Lacy didn't mean to look. Didn't mean to open the photo gallery either.
But his fingers moved before his conscience could catch up.
The photo was simple: Cal and a girl—Selene, probably. Laughing. The kind of laughter that crinkled eyes and made you forget the world existed. She was leaning into him, their faces close. Not kissing. But close enough that it felt more than platonic.
The photo was cropped. Not posted. Not sent.
Lacy locked the phone and set it back down, hands shaking slightly.
He didn't say anything when Cal returned. Just smiled. Forced. Fragile.
Later, Cal mentioned he was busy that weekend. "Work stuff," he said.
Lacy nodded. "Of course."
But something cracked.
That night, Lacy lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.
Why did it hurt?
Why did that picture feel like a punch to the ribs?
Why was it suddenly hard to breathe?
He thought back to everything. The beginning. The friendship that was too soft, too intimate, too everything.
The way Cal used to listen. The way he remembered Lacy's favorite poet. The way he never mocked him for crying at the ending of books. The way he looked at him like Lacy was made of constellations instead of flaws.
He remembered the letter.
"I hope you've found someone who makes the world quieter."
Was this it? Was Selene the quiet? The peace Cal never found in him?
Lacy rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. But the memories didn't stop.
Suddenly, he was reliving everything he'd once shrugged off.
The time Cal's hand lingered just a second too long.
The way Cal's eyes softened when he laughed.
The way his voice always broke a little when he said goodbye.
And then—Cal's confession.
"I like you. Not just as a friend."
Back then, Lacy hadn't known what to say. He'd called himself straight, told himself it wasn't possible, that Cal's love was beautiful but misdirected. He hadn't meant to hurt him. But he had. Because he didn't see what Cal was risking just to be honest.
Now? Now the weight of that honesty came crashing down on him like a storm.
Because suddenly, Lacy understood what he had been too afraid to admit.
He missed Cal in the mornings.
Missed the way his name sounded in a real conversation.
Missed being seen. Really seen.
And it wasn't friendship anymore. It hadn't been for a long time.
He loved him.
Not in a confused way. Not in a maybe-I-do-maybe-I-don't way.
It was real.
Like gravity. Like air. Like something that had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
He sat up in the dark, staring at the floor like it might forgive him.
"I think I've always loved him," Lacy whispered.
His voice cracked.
"I just didn't know it until he started slipping away."