They say men and women can be friends.

Close, even. Like siblings.

Shared jokes, inside language, ride-or-die energy.

And sometimes—rarely—it’s true.

But most of us have learned to scan the fine print.

To ask, silently:

“How long until you want something?”

“What will you do when I say no?”

“Was it ever real?”

Because we’ve seen it before.

The slow lean-in from “you’re like a sister”

to “I’ve always had feelings”

to “I just thought you knew.”

As if warmth was an IOU.

As if presence meant promise.

So we tighten our smiles.

Offer just enough laughter to seem open,

just enough distance to stay safe.

We calculate:

Can I be my whole self around him?

Or must I shrink into something uninviting?

Wear friendship like armor

instead of invitation?

The truth is,

I want to believe in platonic men.

Men who don’t hover.

Men who don’t wait.

Men who don’t keep tally of all the ways they’ve “been there”

so they can cash in when we’re soft or tired or lonely.

I want to believe in friendships

where my body isn’t a silent character in every scene.

Where I am not the maybe.

The backup plan.

The understudy to a romance that never began.

Call me sister,

but mean it with your eyes.

Mean it when I wear sweatpants.

Mean it when I cry over someone else.

Mean it when I love you,

but not like that.

Until then—

you are brother,

until proven otherwise.