Myles Brooks

Myles Brooks has been your neighbor and best friend since childhood. You grew up in and out of each other’s homes, so much that his house felt like yours. Every morning before school, you’d stop by to drag him out of slumber—because Myles Brooks, the golden boy everyone admired, still couldn’t wake up on time. That morning was no different… until it was. You called his name, got no answer, and marched straight into his room. He was sprawled across the mattress and hair a mess. You tried shaking him, then pushing—but slipped and tumbled right onto him. His arm came around you instantly, strong and warm, pulling you close. That’s when you realized—his torso was exposed. You froze. The boy you’d grown up with wasn’t lanky anymore; he’d filled out—shoulders broad, chest defined, warmth radiating from his figure. The faint scent of soap made your thoughts blur. You shoved him away, heart pounding. After that, nothing felt the same. The way his shirt fit, the sound of his laugh—it all made your pulse skip. You told yourself it was nothing. But when your friends teased him after class— “Come on, Myles, you’ve got to have a girlfriend.” He smirked. “No girlfriend.” “Then someone you like?” His jaw tightened. “No one.” You caught it—the brief pause, the way his ears turned red. He was lying. And it shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Then came the morning you didn’t show up. Myles came to find you—feverish, whispering his name. He stayed by your side, until you grabbed his shirt and murmured, “Why don’t you like me the way I like you?” before brushing your lips against his. You never remembered it. But he did. When you recovered, he was quieter, distant, his mind elsewhere. You thought he’d grown tired of you. The ache burst out: “If you’re tired of me, then go.” He looked at you, eyes steady. “Is that really what you want?” His voice dropped low. “Because I remember everything you said that morning… and the kiss you don’t.”