Oliver Godfrey's skin is a mixture of orange and yellow light, sprawled on the white bed sheets of my bed. Of my bed.

He lies on his stomach, like he always does, head tilted to the side as he sleeps peacefully stark bollock naked and I'm left here at five o'clock in the morning just thinking about everything. He fell asleep a long time ago, just like I was supposed to. But, instead, I went on Twitter for a bit, took a few Snapchats (and made sure I didn't get a sleeping, naked Oliver in the shot) and then just lied there because my mind has become this fucking thing that won't switch off.

Cars and planes and people make noises. The world still turns. What happens next after you've lived your dream? What happens when the dream ends and the credits don't roll, and you're still here?

I remember watching Oliver all the time, the way he moved and talked and laughed and the way he touched me, how it sparked electricity through me like he was lightning and I was a tree.

I know I love him. I've known for a very long time. It doesn't just go away, no matter how many other boys you fuck, no matter how many meltdowns you have, no matter how many places you go. It doesn't just leave, stop and move onto somebody else. It sinks it's teeth in until you're too tired to wriggle.

I think about everything Oliver has said to me about all this; about wanting me to be happy, about doing anything for me, but not being in love with me, not having the teeth biting his skin, but wanting me anyway, making it known that he fucking wants me and holy shit did I feel it last night.

Oliver Godfrey has become so much more than I thought of him to be. A man of many dimensions, a man that hopes it'll all be ok once the dream is over.

I've watched him for an hour, his still, sleeping face beckoning me and I want to lean down. It'll never be enough because it's almost too much.

He jolts awake, stretches in a stupidly dramatic way that I've never seen him do before despite sleeping next to him multiple times.

"Where am I?" He mutters when only really looking at the ceiling.

"America." I say softly, and he looks at me like he can't quite believe it. I'm here, with him, in this absolute mess of feelings and other really gay stuff. He kisses me anyway, and I melt completely.

I don't say anything when we part, and so he faces me on his side, using his arm as a pillow. We stare at one another but I only know what I'm thinking about, obviously. I know I'm thinking about how no, despite this, despite this beautiful this, I still cannot date him, because...I don't want to.

It all comes rushing suddenly, and my eyes begin to sting and fuck, I'm crying. Not relentless sobbing, but my eyes become red rimmed and my cheeks are wet and Oliver has to sit up to get his arms completely around me.

"This isn't fair." I say into his shoulder as I feel his eyelashes stroke the bite marks on mine. "This was supposed to be...fuck, I don't know what this was supposed to be. Good, maybe? Oliver, Oliver what was this?"

"I don't know." Is all he says, and he doesn't kiss me again, not in that way, never that way, again.

.....

Every night, I dream of Oliver Godfrey, and it's exactly in the way that you think it is. We're in bed. He's on top of me. He's making noises that make me so warm that he doesn't really need to touch me. But he does anyway. He really fucking does.

But that's it. When I dream of him I don't dream of us. I don't dream of afterwards, because there isn't an afterwards. I love him, and he loves me, and that's all we need. Sex is different from love. You need love, but you don't need sex. I've had sex with Oliver and it was the fucking best sex I've ever had. Hey, it was the sex I dreamed of. But now is the after, and the after is saying that to have a relationship with Oliver would not be as strong as a friendship.

My and Oliver's friendship is so strong it can tear through mountains. And the sooner I stop bloody thinking that romantic or sexual love is more important than the love I feel for him now, the sooner I can stop dicking about and ask Parker Watts on a date that isn't Fifa and fucking.

And I know Oliver is the bestest friend I can ever dream of, because he sits opposite me, only recently having recovered his clothes, persuading me to call him.

"You've called him before, right?"

"Yeah, but I was smashed. I can't even remember what I said."

"You have nothing to lose. You know he's into you; he's constantly texting and tweeting and snapchatting you. He likes that people think you're dating."

"Are you jealous?" I ask again, biting my tongue.

Oliver shakes his head. "You're not a competition. Best friends don't get jealous of each other." I smile, and he smiles. And the whole fucking world smiles.

I just press call, I just do it, and hold my breath. I don't put it on speaker because while Oliver is here and telling me to ring him, I know there is a part of him that's not exactly jealous, but it's not so selfless that he wants to hear the whole conversation. Last night he'd said that no one can be that selfless, despite the atmosphere he gives off.

It rings and it rings but nobody answers. I try one more time before giving up, because I don't want to look that desperate.

"Text him, maybe?"

I shake my head. "Nah, it's fine. He'll get back to me." I hope he does. I hope he sees that I've called and gets low key excited; excited about me.

The phone beeps and I grab at it again. It's not a text from Parker, but a DM from Candice, who's linked me to a tweet from a gossip Twitter that's just announced the reason why Parker isn't answering the phone right now.

I tilt the phone towards Oliver, and he squeezes my shoulder to move himself round to get a better look.

Parker has fucking done it. He's left Dawn Senate.