A Very Short Story About A Very Long Time

She sat with him, in the doorway to her house, not quite in the downstairs hall. This was what they always did when her mom wasn’t home (her mother had rules about boys, even if they were only friends).
He sat across from her, his right leg almost touching hers. She was strange in that almost was, to her, better than the real thing. And, in her mind, safer - nothing wrong with it.
Or they sat at the top of the stairs to her apartment, just past the barrier of the rail.
It didn’t really matter. What did matter was the way he looked into her eyes, held her spellbound in a little bubble with him.
She had been afraid that after they broke up, their friendship would no longer be this way. But after all, he had said “no offence, I like you better as a friend”. So maybe it shouldn’t have been such a relief, should have been expected.
One of her friends was convinced He really had liked Her. She disagreed. She still liked him. She wasn’t going to let on, though. Friendship was fine with her. The summer had been hard, her heart unwilling to believe she was worth anything, but she was fine now. After all, they’d only gone out for about two weeks, and had been friends for a year before that.
In that moment, neither yet knew what the future months, years, would hold. She didn’t know how he would change. He didn’t know she would “talk about him”. He might never understand why. She didn’t know how much his words and actions would hurt. She didn’t realise how much of her security (or lack thereof) hinged on his opinion. They didn’t know it would end. Three months and this friendship would be dead, and the years would begin.
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