Friend.
Continuing to maintain that petty title of a relationship,
it was unclear how long I could keep hiding these feelings.
Because the moment I reached out a hand in the name of comfort,
there was no guarantee my fragile patience wouldn’t waver.

“Mistake?”

Her face, gone cold, twisted into a sneer.

“After biting, sucking, and fucking all night—what, now you call it a mistake?”
“Yes. A mistake.”

Her eyes, staring straight at me as if to finish me off, were, damn it, resolute.

She could’ve just said she didn’t like me.
She could’ve simply rejected me with a blunt, ‘Sorry, my heart’s not in it.’
But the devastation packed into that single word—mistake—was beyond description.
The humiliation I felt for the first time in my life was unbearable.

“I warned you, didn’t I? If you hate it, then run.”
“……”
“But you didn’t run, did you.”

Clear proof it wasn’t drunkenness or a mistake—
and she seemed somewhat shaken by that fact.

“You spread your legs and moaned because you wanted it, and now you call it a mistake?”
“It wasn’t an easy decision. Don’t speak carelessly.”
“Was it easy, then, to fuck a friend you’ve had for over ten years?”