Is It wrong?

i.

Michael's bedroom had become, to you, a world all of its own. Whenever you were there, lying amidst the plaid-printed comforter and inhaling the distinct scent of Michael that clung to his pillowcase, you'd feel as though the outside world had, for the time being, ceased to exist altogether.

You were certain you spent more time in Michael's room than your own nowadays; there was just something so comforting about his room, even despite the cringe-worthy posters of half-naked girls that never failed to make you roll your eyes. There was something comforting about Michael.

Most nights you'd hang out there, even when Michael scoffed at your presence, insisting that he was busy (but smiling with a knowing look in his eyes all the same). Sometimes you'd watch him play his computer games, other times you'd lie with your head on his chest and watch South Park reruns (god, was Michael immature, you'd come to realize, after witnessing him laugh at one too many dick jokes), and oftentimes you'd do nothing but have constant, urgent sex.

Urgent- recently things had seemed that way, like not a single second in one another's company could be put to waste. As the weather grew warmer and the months passed by at a startlingly rapid pace, it became increasingly apparent that there wasn't much time left.

Both of you had finished sending in your college applications, and soon enough, you'd both be graduating high school- a thought that filled you with dread.

You'd grown so fond of having Michael at an arm's length at all times, being able to creep into his room whenever you felt particularly bored or or lonely or horny. What would you do once you were away at college? Thinking about living Michael-less again filled you with thousands of emotions, all pooled up in the pit of your belly, that you intended to ignore and deal with later.

This couldn't keep on, you knew. It was inevitable that things would eventually have to end between the two of you. But when?

You found yourself lost in thought as you laid next to Michael one night; he wore only his boxers, one arm lifted so he could scroll through his phone while he idly wrapped the other around you. Lifting your head slightly, you looked at his flawless profile, a sound of vague discontent coming up from the back of your throat as you debated saying something.

He turned to you, quirking an eyebrow and setting his phone down on his chest. "What?"

"I dunno," you said. You turned onto your side so you were pressed closer up against his warm body, splaying your palm flat on his soft tummy. He smelled good, you noticed, gratefully inhaling the boyish, woodsy scent of his deodorant as you nuzzled your nose against his skin. "I was just thinking."

"About?" He was tracing a pattern on your back with his fingertips, something you were sure he was doing absentmindedly.

"Graduation," you said. This, of course, wasn't the full truth, but you weren't about to make yourself seem unnecessarily needy by mentioning that you were also thinking about the fact that in a matter of months, you and Michael could no longer continue...whatever the hell this was.