If this was a story, one of them would be dead by now; trampled by a rising action or gored by a plot twist. But it isn’t, and they aren’t, and they soak in the blissful lull where life happens when the narrators off having fun. It’s love without the misty eyes and sappy promises, lust without the weight of destiny or finely orchestrated dances where every touch is perfect. It’s life, and love, and lust, and none of it worth writing home about, except that it is. And someday, when the narrator has had it’s fill of Action with an A, and Romance with an R, they’ll show it just how much it missed, and why sometimes it’s the story that isn’t a story that’s worth telling.