𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

pretty boy.

Friends-to-lovers trope, with an annoying ex thrown in for good measure.

5584 words.

He spends twenty minutes perusing my bookshelves, asking me questions about whether each title is a result of personal interest or just another tome I've accumulated. He makes small noises of enthusiasm when he finds one he's also read. The pages make a pleasant flutter as he thumbs them, the dry crackle of paper warming the air.

I am acutely aware of the state of my living room, the yellow glow of the lamp in the corner and the occasional draught through the open window, which is ajar so that we can smoke. It's the strange hinterland days between Christmas and New Year. Limp paper chains adorn the ceiling and the real tree I insisted on picking up has been dropping needles, in a quiet sort of rebellion at being wrenched from its roots and humiliated with baubles.

'Matty,' I ask quietly. 'Do you think I did the wrong thing this evening?'

He puts down the copy of 'Ulysses' he's holding and stares at me with dark, shining eyes. 'I don't, no.'

I roll the stem of my wine glass between my thumb and forefinger. 'What am I going to do?'

'I really don't know.' He chews his lip pensively. 'Phone around, call in a favour?'

The pile of books beside him has grown, like a game of Jenga; I extract 'The Outsider' from underneath a rhyming dictionary. 'It doesn't feel good yet, but I know it will. This arrangement, it was just...'

'Absurd.' The corners of Matty's mouth twitch upwards into a wry smile. It has the effect of conveying a silent understanding, the way one might smile if they had a secret. Maybe we did.

I look doubtfully down at the book in my hand. 'I can't even read this. It's the French edition.'

A couple of foxes fight loudly in the street outside, their screeches echoing through the open window. I light the joint and peer out, trying to spot them, but they are gone in a flash, off to skirmish in another garden down the road. The smoke irritates my throat, though I manage not to cough.

Matty touches my elbow, and I pass it to him. He's moved to stand beside me now at the open window, and I watch him askance as he smokes, his face gently illuminated by the sliver of the moon.

I wonder what thoughts might be running through his head, and suddenly feel quite maddened that I can't know. And yet I know him well enough to know he is probably picking apart whatever he's been writing today, and replaying scenes from the party this evening that he wishes had gone differently. He is confident, but not above a bit of insecurity; no ego goes unchecked, not even either of ours. What frustrates me really is that no amount of well-judged conjecture will include what I want it to.

Ben dragged the guy over, spilling both of their drinks, but he didn't seem to mind. He swayed a little on the spot as he stood in front of me, his shirt hanging oddly on his shoulders from Ben's grip.

'I can't believe you guys haven't met yet, fucking hell. We must have been at the same parties for months!'

I observed him coolly for a moment. 'Oh no, I think your face is familiar.' This was not a lie, but in fact an understatement. He was loud, this one, always playing the fool, though not necessarily from a desire for attention. He could be standing in the corner of someone's back garden with a spliff in his hand, and his boyish peal of laughter would cut right through the clamour. I'd overheard him in conversation with girls - very smooth, often pretentious and asking impossible questions that would get them flustered and stumbling over their words. And then he would be all sweetness and light, sending himself up as they doted on him, begging to let him 'sleep on their sofa'. I never saw him with the same girl twice.