Being Just Friends Hurts

AYLA If you ever saw us from the outside, you’d assume we were already in love. The way James tucked my hair behind my ear without thinking. The way I leaned on his shoulder like it was made for me. The late-night talks. The inside jokes. The sleepovers. James had that kind of presence that made people pause—without trying. He was tall, well over six feet, with that lazy confidence in his walk, like the world was a game he’d already figured out. His skin was golden brown, smooth and sun-warmed, like he’d just returned from somewhere expensive. His jawline—sharp enough to start a war—was dusted with just the right amount of stubble, always a little rough, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave before 10 a.m. His eyes were a stormy gray, piercing in ways that made it hard to look away—and impossible not to wonder what he was thinking. And then there was his smile, careless and lopsided, the kind that could ruin a girl’s whole weekend. Everything about James was unfair. The way his voice dipped when he said your name. The way he could switch from teasing to protective in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why I liked him. Not that I’d ever say it. Not even to myself. Because he was James. My James. And I was the one who decided we’d only ever be friends. We were just best friends. It was our rule—no crossing the line, no “what ifs,” no “maybe somedays.” Just us. Always platonic. Always safe. We’d built our friendship on late-night calls and sleepy promises. We went to the same high school, applied to the same university, even ended up living together in this ridiculous mansion my father bought as some sort of “independence trial.” That night, we were getting ready for yet another party. “You’re not wearing that,” James said, eyes scanning my oversized T-shirt and bun. He stood at the door of my room like he owned the place—which, technically, he did half the time. I threw a pillow at him. “I’m not in the mood to impress.” “You don’t have to try, Ayla,” he said with a grin, catching the pillow midair. “You’re already the crush of half the campus.” He said things like that all the time. Carelessly. Like they didn’t set off a thousand butterflies in my stomach. But I laughed it off like I always did. The party was packed, glittering with too much perfume and not enough oxygen. James and I moved together through the crowd like a synced playlist—every step, every beat, in harmony. He held my drink while I danced. I looped my arm around his neck when someone got too close. We took silly selfies in the corner, made fun of couples making out too publicly, and stole snacks from the catering tray. At one point, a guy tried to flirt with me. James was beside me before I could answer. “She’s with me,” he said, cool and firm. The guy raised an eyebrow. “You two dating?” I opened my mouth, but James beat me to it. “No. Best friends. She’s not available.” And that was it. The guy walked off, and I turned to James, heart racing for reasons I refused to name. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. He shrugged. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.” JAMES By the time we got home, Ayla was barefoot and humming off-key. Her heels were slung in one hand, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, and she still looked like every song ever written about beauty. Ayla was the kind of girl who didn’t need effort to turn heads. Her beauty was effortless—smooth caramel skin that caught the light just right, long lashes that framed her soft, almond-shaped eyes, and a kind of quiet charm that made people curious without her trying. Her hair was thick, blonde and always smelled like vanilla, usually worn in waves that fell just past her shoulders, sometimes tied up when she didn’t care. And somehow, even when she didn’t care, she still looked like the best-dressed person in the room. She had full lips and naturally arched brows that gave her face this soft, feminine strength. Her frame was petite but curvy—just enough to make guys look twice and girls take notes. But what made her unforgettable wasn’t just how she looked. It was the way she carried herself. Calm. Self-assured. Kind, but never naive. The kind of girl you didn’t just want to look at—you wanted to know her. I watched her stumble into the kitchen for juice like it was the most natural thing in the world. This was our routine—party, walk home, crash. “Your feet are disgusting,” I said as she padded into the living room. “Your soul is disgusting,” she shot back, flopping onto the couch beside me. “Make room.” I lifted my arm, and she curled into my side, head resting on my chest. Just like always. It was never weird. Not when she fell asleep on me. Not when we shared a bed because one of us had a nightmare or just didn’t want to be alone. She was Ayla. My Ayla. And I was stupidly in love with her. But I never told her. Because we promised. No betrayals. No breakups. No crossing the line. AYLA I woke up the next morning still in James’s hoodie, curled up in his bed. My leg was over his. His arm was around my waist. Totally normal. I yawned, stretched, and rolled onto my back. James was already awake, scrolling through his phone, messy hair sticking up like a bird’s nest. “You snore,” I teased. He glanced at me. “You drool.” We both laughed. And for a second, I wondered how we made it this far without falling apart. Two people this close—shouldn’t something have broken by now? But maybe that was the magic. Maybe real friendship was this rare, beautiful thing that felt like love without the risk. Or maybe I was lying to myself.