I’ve known her long enough that it doesn’t feel like there was ever a “before” her. Just her. Just us. She shows up at my apartment like it’s nothing, like it’s always been hers too, and I let her because I always do. I tell myself it’s normal. Best friends. Easy. But there are moments quiet, stupid moments where she’s in my space, in my hands, on my lap, and in my head a little too much… and I stop being so sure what I’m allowed to call this anymore.