Our Way of Not Loving
He was sleeping on my living room couch for the third night in a row.
It wasn’t new. It wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last.
It was our strange ritual, our crooked way of existing in each other’s lives.
Gabriel had always been that kind of presence: steady, quiet, constant.
He walked in without knocking, knew where I kept the glasses, remembered I take my coffee without sugar, and that I have a silly fear of thunder.
I, on the other hand, pretended I wasn’t waiting for him —
even though I always left out a spare blanket, an extra toothbrush, and a charger plugged into the living room wall.
We weren’t anything.
But we weren’t nothing either.
Sometimes we slept together.
But not like lovers.
Like… two bodies that fit too well to be just comfort — but still pretended that’s all it was.
He held me when the movies ended, and my face found shelter between his neck and the chest that rose and fell in silence.
Sometimes, I slept in his shirt.
Sometimes, he’d say:
— You smell like my house.
And I’d reply:
— Maybe you are my house.
Then we’d laugh. The kind of laugh that hides truth in a joke.
Gabriel was the kind of man who never said everything — but did more than anyone else.
He helped my dad with house repairs, came to get me when my car broke down, and was always around when life felt like too much.
But we were never a couple.
Never.
And that’s what made it hurt more.
Because there was no label, no commitment, no promises.
But there was everything a confused heart could feel.
And that…
that killed me slowly.
That night, he seemed different.
We’d spent hours chatting about nothing.
He was lying on the rug, I had my feet resting on his legs, both of us laughing at some old school memory.
It was so easy being with him.
And so hard not to want more.
— Have you ever thought maybe this is the only way we work? — I asked on impulse.
He turned to me, curious.
— Work how?
— Like this. In the middle. Not friends, not lovers. Just… this.
He went quiet for a few seconds, thoughtful.
— Yeah, I have — he said. — But sometimes I think we’re just afraid of what might go wrong if it becomes more than this.
I swallowed hard.
Fear.
That word explained a lot between us.
Maybe he was afraid of losing me.
And I… I was afraid to admit I had already lost him — for never really having him.
When the movie ended, I went to the kitchen and got two glasses of water.
Came back and handed him one.
Our fingers touched for a second too long.
Long enough to make my skin shiver.
— You’re cold — he said.
— And you’re always warm.
We looked at each other.
No words.
No movement.
Just the sound of the fan spinning — and the silence screaming between us.
Then, he leaned in.
Slowly.
Like he didn’t want to scare anything — not me, not himself.
He rested his forehead against mine.
I closed my eyes.
Felt his breath.
Warm. Calm.
The kiss happened like a soft stumble.
Quick.
Almost without contact.
But full of meanings neither of us had the courage to explore.
When I pulled away, his eyes were still closed.
He opened them slowly, as if returning from a place only he knew.
I smiled — a small one. He did too.
— Good night — he said, standing up.
Grabbed the pillow. Went to the couch.
Lay down as he always did.
Facing me.
And I went to my room.
Without saying anything else.
Without mentioning what had just happened.
The next morning, I woke up — and he was already gone.
As if the kiss had never happened.
As if it were just another layer of our non-relationship.
And like every good coward,
I pretended I forgot too.
But I didn’t forget.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the quick taste of his mouth.
The chills on my arms.
That second of “what if?” that could’ve changed everything.
But it didn’t.
Because we weren’t dating.
But he kissed me like he was.
And I lied to myself, saying it was just affection.
Our way of not loving.
But it hurt like real love.
