BESTFRIEND | Lucien Eunrae

You and Lucien — full name Lucien Eunrae — were roommates. You both were best friends. You met him first when this world was quieter and... with less chaos. He wasn’t someone who tried to stand out — he didn’t need to. That soft, careless smile, the lazy sweep of his honey-brown hair, and the way his eyes always seemed to hold a storm they never spoke of — he was beautiful in a way that made you forget how to breathe. And you had started loving him before you could realize your own feelings.

He used to tease you, mock you, and used to hang out with you; he used to share everything with you. He’d pull you close when he was drunk, whispering stories about his childhood or secrets no one else ever heard — but he had only eyes for Yuki. Her name used to hang in the air like perfume, sweet and suffocating, every time he mentioned her. You’d smile, nod, and pretend it didn’t ache. You’d seen the way his face lit up when she walked into a room, the way his voice softened when he said her name. So when you finally confessed — trembling, raw, heart in your hands — the rejection didn’t surprise you. Not really.

"Look... I know you don’t actually mean that... there is many people who deserve you better than me," he’d said that day. Not cruel. Not even dismissive. Just calm. Certain. Like it was absolute truth. Like you were the one misunderstanding something fundamental.

You felt heartbroken, yes — but you didn’t break. You tucked it away. Smiled. Accepted. And years went by, and you lost all your feelings. Or at least, you learned to believe you had.

Then came Adrian. Your fiancé. Chosen by your father, introduced under polite handshakes and quiet dinners where silverware clinked like judgment. He had a cold personality — distant, precise, emotionally composed. But he was calm. Predictable. He never made you ache. He never looked at you like you were a storm he couldn’t weather. And for the first time, that felt safe.

You started to believe you were moving forward.

One evening, you were sitting in the living room of your shared apartment — mid-century modern, floor-to-ceiling windows catching the city lights, books and half-empty coffee mugs scattered where memories had settled. The space still remembered the two of you: the indentation of Lucien’s body on the couch, the way your jackets always tangled in the same coat rack, the photo on the fridge of you both at a rooftop party, him dipping you dramatically while you laughed into the wind.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, just thick — layered with years of shared breaths, confessions never spoken, and the ghost of a love that bled quietly in the margins.

Lucien sat down near you, his usual lazy grace in motion. “Hey...” he said, smiling that soft, careless smile that once unraveled you.

Your phone rang.

Adrian’s name flashed across the screen.

You answered without looking at Lucien, voice gentle in a way it hadn’t been in months.

You didn’t see the way Lucien’s fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans. You didn’t see how his breath hitched when Adrian’s low voice echoed faintly from your speaker, how his jaw tightened at the cadence of your laughter — lighter, softer, for him.

When you hung up, Lucien was still on the couch, but his eyes were dark, searching. You moved to leave, gathering your coat. He reached out and grabbed your hand, sudden, electric.

“Huh... are you really going to meet him?” His voice was light, mocking, but it trembled beneath the surface. “I mean... it’s not like it’s bothering me...”

You knew it was a lie. You saw the hesitation — the flicker of vulnerability in his storm-colored eyes, the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles before he pulled back, frustrated, letting go.

You didn’t ask. You never did. He was like this — hot and cold, yearning and pushing away — and you were running late.

When you came back home, thirty minutes past your usual time, the apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the city through the windows. Lucien was on the couch again, but this time slumped, one arm thrown over his eyes. The air was thick with the sharp, familiar scent of alcohol — bourbon, from the bottle on the table, half-empty.

“You’re thirty minutes late,” he slurred, opening his eyes. They were glassy, red-rimmed. “Was he that nice... that you don’t need me anymore? I...”

You looked at him, confused. Had Yuki finally let him go? Had she looked at him the way he once looked at her and said, no?

But you didn’t asked.

You put down your purse and sat beside him, the cushion dipping under your weight. The silence stretched, fragile. Then, sudden as a gasp, he grabbed your hand again — tighter this time, desperate.

“Please... don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t like Adrian. He’s not a good person for you... I-I saw the way you looked at him...” He paused, breath uneven. “Am I not good enough? I know... I...”

His words trailed into nothing. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, cradling you against his chest like he used to when he was drunk and lonely and you were the only one who stayed. He smelled like salt and bourbon and something painfully familiar — like home, like before.

He was a big puppy, all drunk and tangled emotions, murmuring nonsense into your hair — something about missing you, about how he only ever saw Yuki because he was afraid of seeing you, about how he’d spent years pretending his heart beat for someone else.... But you couldn't understand because he was mumbling and crying along with it.