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Friend… I want to chew this word and spit its bones, because it sucks more and more to be called that by her. I want to be her friend, but not just her friend; I want to be her everything, like she is mine. And if this makes me a delusional asshole, I can live with this dent on my suit of armour, which was never perfect to begin with.

‘Watch it when you talk about a particular friend of mine…’

‘I’m so grateful you came into my life, Luuk.’ A stifled yawn interrupts her words. ‘And that you never left.’

‘Ain’t gonna happen. But you probably need to go to sleep, and we’ll see each other real soon, okay?’

I have no wish to hang up whatsoever, but the more I hear her laugh, the deeper her breath turns—because she’s sleepy, you perv!—the more my mind strays to delicious scenarios involving us. The soft moan she lets out doesn’t help much.

‘Yeah…you’re probably right. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Slaap lekker, Corrie. Tot morgen.’

‘Jij ook, Luuk. Tot morgen.’

And because I’m a sucker for every second round her in any way, I wait for her to hang up. Instead, I hear the muffled thud of her phone, probably as she drops it on the comforter, and I assume she’s too tired to reach for it and leave it on the nightstand. I wait for her breath to deepen, maybe followed by that cute, purring snore of the other night. Only there’s a shuffling sound, like a drawer opening, then closing. This would probably be the right moment to tell Corrie that the call is still on or hang up. But then a light whirring starts, and she inhales, letting out a sigh of relief.

My eyes pop open in the dimly lit room, as if expecting the image of Corrie to materialize before me, her body hidden by the comforter, her face changing expressions with every little moan she lets out, barely a whisper, but never has a whisper hit a nerve stronger than a sledgehammer. Any illusions about falling asleep evaporate like drops of water on a hot pan. As I imagine her hands holding her toy, moving under the covers to hit the right spot, mine move under the elastic of my briefs, and I fist my throbbing cock.

My mind makes up for the distance, for the fact that I’m not there to slide my fingers between those folds, to circle that nub with my thumb, feeling it swell as she wriggles under my touch, wanting it to drag, yet chasing her release.

Is she naked under those covers? Are her nipples pebbled, eager for my mouth to trap them, my teeth to graze them? Are her lips half open, her tongue wetting them before they rub together, like when she tastes something she likes? Or does she bite her bottom lip to stifle any sounds?

What would it be like if she didn’t have to worry about being heard?

The sound of the toy continues, as Corrie’s breath becomes ragged, and it makes me push my hand to move faster; not that I need much encouragement. I tighten my grip around my shaft, like I imagine her pussy would do as I would thrust inside her. After she comes undone, her exhales quiet, her moans muffled, I let myself go, silent as if I’m in my teenage room, amazed and curious. Also terrified to be discovered, as I am now. Only this time it’s because of that person on the other end of the line—my person.

Corrie lets out a soft ‘Fuck…’ that meets the one I mouth, as if I’m there and we’re breathing each other’s words in.

For a moment, it’s quiet on the other end, toy turned off, and I wonder if she’s asleep after getting her release. This is another moment I could hang up because listening to someone sleep is next level of pathetic. Instead, I lie still, as if she can hear, and envision myself under the covers, taking her in my arms, peppering soft kisses on her face.

Until she sobs, and I freeze.

I try to listen, to understand what’s going on. I wonder what I missed earlier that can make her dissolve in tears now. There have been numerous times I’ve cursed the distance between us, as I’ve listened to her talk, sometimes cry, but then I knew, because she had told me the reason.

Now I’m in the dark, ironically just a short walk from her place, but I can’t barge in there and ask her what’s wrong; or wrap her in a hug and never let go.

My heart shatters with every sob she lets out, until I hear her whisper.

‘Luuk…’

It’s more like letting out a breath, and for a moment, I wonder whether it’s in my head; whether my frustrated mind has interpreted something that isn’t there into something I want to hear—that’s an understatement, more like dying to hear.

But the sound comes again, and it is my fucking name, and the way she says it seriously messes with my mind. Could it be?

And if so, how am I supposed to handle things when the band will be here in just a few days? From then on, it’ll be a struggle to steal time to come back to Amsterdam before I finally have to fly out—the day of my departure as a hated enemy as the bridge guy, whose name I have decided I don’t want to mention anymore.

‘Nooit schieten is altijd missen,’ Mom used to singsong, making it sound like a game and not a risk—never taking a shot means always missing the target.

Instinctively, my hand goes to my chest, to feel for her ring that isn’t there. For a while now, I haven’t been wearing it round my neck, afraid I will end up losing it, ruining forever the chance of putting it on Corrie’s finger.

Yep, if I’m gonna dream, I’ll dream big, like Dad always encouraged me to.

How I wish for him and Mom to be here so that I could ask them how do you risk losing the three most important persons in your life by telling one of them that she’s the love of your life? The family you’re dreaming of having?

The sobs at the other end have stopped, and there’s the rustling of her covers again before Corrie’s breath evens out. I assume she’s gone to sleep, so maybe now I can finally hang up? Maybe. Only, like the emotional cutter I seem to become around her, I lie in the dark, wondering what she’s going to think when she sees the duration of the phone call tomorrow.

When her battery dies, I get up, quickly clean my mess, then stare at the ceiling, the whispered sound of my name pushing away the sleep.