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Gigi had always assumed it was the thought that counted. Like letting Cecilia rest on her shoulder while her heart prepared to jump out of orbit. Or, maybe, it was just allowing the thought to even form.
She sometimes imagined the tiny explosions in her chest when Cecilia laughed—how it sent shivers down her spine even when no one else was around. It was like a secret fire she was allowed to carry alone.
She’d replay actions she wanted a hundred times but never dared to try. Words she hoarded, only to imagine giving them away—for just one more second of closeness, of pretending she belonged to that moment.
And sometimes, in those rehearsals, she’d let her hand brush against Cecilia’s deliberately, imagining the warmth, the faint tremor in her own fingers as Cecilia didn’t pull away.
If only things were different. If only she were brave enough to let herself believe. To lean forward, to risk what would come after.
Because if she ever gave in to them, they would surely strike her back down into constant, endless what-ifs.
But the heart doesn’t negotiate. It pushes, nudges, insists on feeling anyway, regardless of consequences or logic. Gigi felt that insistence with every exhale, every glance at Cecilia’s unknowing face.
Then again, maybe that would’ve been worth it. Maybe this thought, if acted upon, would make Cecilia laugh, would draw her out—and Gigi would have nothing to do but smile stupidly, helplessly, as the automaton jabbed harmless remarks into her chest.
Cecilia never notices, or maybe she pretends not to. She leans so easily, as if Gigi’s shoulder was always meant to be there, as if gravity itself had decided for her. And Gigi, traitorous as ever, lets herself imagine—just for a heartbeat—that this ease is something shared. That the closeness isn’t an accident but a choice.
Gigi wondered if Cecilia ever felt it too—the electric hum of two people brushing against something quiet, the silent acknowledgement of ‘more than this’ that hovered in the space between each moment.
But the thought flickers, as all her thoughts do, and she buries it under a wide grin. Better to hold it quietly, safe and unspoken, than risk Cecilia catching her staring too long.
Because it doesn’t count when her hands hover too long, when they steady Cecilia by the waist only to let go a beat later. It doesn’t count when her fingers ghost over the hem of a sleeve, pretending it’s an accident.
It doesn’t count when Cecilia leans heavier, when her gears whirr low and tired, and Gigi tilts just enough to bear the weight. That’s what friends do. That’s all it is.
It doesn’t count when her chest flutters like a trapped bird, when she swears she can feel Cecilia’s warmth seep through layers of fabric, when every small motion is amplified into something monumental in her mind.
The couch dips beneath them, shoulder against shoulder, the air caught between quiet breathing and the faint tick of winding brass. Gigi stays still, memorising how close they are without daring to close the gap. She laughs under her breath at nothing, grin tugging upward, hiding the thought that claws at her chest.
She could almost hear her own heartbeat over the mechanical hum around them, a private rhythm that seemed to sync with Cecilia’s soft exhale. It was intimate and terrifying all at once.
Because if she were to move—if she brushed her hand along Cecilia’s arm like she wants to, if she let her head tip until it found hers—that would count. And she isn’t ready for that. Not yet.
But the truth is, they never really stuck to that, did they? The idea of just being friends. It had never fit—not since the beginning, when they’d clicked too quickly, too naturally, like the world had already drawn a line between them and dared them to follow it.
Sometimes Gigi wondered if that line was there to protect them or to mock her, daring her to cross it while leaving her frozen on the wrong side.
And still, Gigi clings to the façade. She laughs too loudly, wears her whimsy like armour, and tells herself these slip-ups don’t count. Not when her hands linger. Not when her heart aches. Not when Cecilia leans in as if she belongs there.
She’s always lingering. Always wanting. Always betraying herself with the smallest cracks.
“Your shoulder’s too low,” Cecilia mutters suddenly, her voice drowsy but pointed, the complaint muffled against fabric.
Gigi huffs a laugh. “Then get off my shoulder.”
Instead, Cecilia buries her face deeper, her hair tickling against Gigi’s cheek as she sighs. “I don’t want to.”
Gigi swallows hard, tasting the faint perfume in Cecilia’s hair, feeling the absurd, impossible desire to just stay there forever. She tells herself she’s imagining too much—but every nerve in her body insists it’s real.
And just like that, Gigi’s heart attempts a full gymnastics routine—backflips, triple twists, crash-landing straight onto the floor before staggering back up with a concussion and no sense of balance. She bites down on her grin, but it’s hopeless; the smile breaks through anyway, smug and helpless.