"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
"Magnets, how do they work? Fucking Magic." ~Julian
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I woke up to the gentle weight of a woman's hand on my forehead.
In another life, this might have been a romantic, cinematic way to begin the day—soft sunlight filtering through the curtains, the faint scent of lavender in the air, and the tender touch of someone who cared. But this wasn't another life. This was my life, and the woman in question was Vivi, my personal care tyrant. Her hand wasn't there to caress; it was there to assess whether I had suddenly, miraculously contracted an illness that might excuse me from waking up at what she considered a civilized hour."
No such luck.
"He's faking it," August declared from somewhere across the room, his voice as crisp and unyielding as the starched collar he probably ironed at dawn.
"I am sick," I mumbled into my pillow, my voice muffled and pathetic. "Dying, probably. Tell my story, August. Tell the world I was taken too soon."
Vivi, unmoved by my theatrics, pried the blankets off me with the efficiency of a nurse on a mission.
"Julian, breakfast in ten. Up."
I groaned and stretched out like a cat in distress, my limbs flopping dramatically across the bed.
"You people are heartless. Utterly without compassion. Do you even have souls, or did you trade them for punctuality or something?"
"We've been hearing this speech for a month now," she said. "It's losing its charm."
August made a sound of agreement, likely already laying out my clothes with the military precision he applied to every task. I could practically hear the hangers sliding across the rod in my closet, each garment perfectly aligned, each fold a testament to his unrelenting competence.
I groaned again, flipping onto my stomach and burying my face into the pillows.
"Vivi, please. I just need five more minutes."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"I was lying then. I'm being serious now."
Her response was swift and merciless—a sharp pinch to the back of my arm that made me yelp.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," she said, her tone dripping with faux sweetness.
I peeled one eye open and squinted at August, who was standing at attention like a soldier awaiting orders. "August."
"Yes, sir?"
"You're a butler, correct?"
He turned to me slowly, his expression as unreadable as ever. "...That is correct."
"Then tell me, where in the butler's handbook does it say you get to oppress me?"
