A fictionalized friends-to-lovers story.
Matt and I had been friends for sixteen years. We knew each other’s embarrassing stories, bad outfits, and opinions about people we had dated. We were less experienced at discussing the possibility that we might want to date each other.
One evening, the conversation finally reached it. We admitted the attraction we had been dismissing with jokes, kissed, and spent the night together.
In the morning, Matt attempted breakfast with the concentration of a man performing a task under observation. I knew him well enough to recognize that he was nervous. Familiarity, it turned out, did not prevent an awkward morning; it made the awkwardness unusually recognizable.
“Do you feel different?” I asked.
“I feel like I should make better eggs.”
It was a good answer to the smaller question. We still had the larger one.
We talked about whether we wanted another date, whether either of us regretted the night, and what we were afraid of changing. Sixteen years of friendship did not automatically establish romantic compatibility. It did give us a reason to be careful with each other rather than let embarrassment do the talking.
I was relieved that we did not have to declare the whole history inevitable. Perhaps we had wanted this for a while. Perhaps the timing had changed. Neither explanation required us to pretend we already knew the ending.
We agreed to meet again, deliberately this time. Matt offered to cook. I suggested dinner out. There was no need to test every part of the new arrangement at once.
