Charlie appears to have moved into my bedroom. It was supposed to be for two weeks while Thomas slept in his room, but there are signs that he’s here to stay. I hadn’t understood why Charlie had boxed his possessions up. It was only his brother who was using his bedroom, and not a stranger. In the days that followed, Charlie started unpacking the boxes and claiming residency.

I walked into the bedroom and there was a pile of books stacked neatly beside the bed. Pasolini’s Requiem, Arditti’s the Celibate, Dancer from the Dance, and Eric Jourdan’s Les mauvais anges. I hadn’t realised that Charlie could read as well as speak both languages. I didn’t realise how pernickety he was either. I looked at his books and didn’t put them back in the right order, and he quickly rearranged them until he was satisfied.

There is also the amount of time he spends half naked on my bed, his head resting on ‘his’ pillows, while scrolling through his phone. I realised that he was updating his Instagram and felt a bit guilty. I’d manoeuvred my way around him blocking me by using a fake account and I could now see everything he posted. I had been shocked at first, photos of Charlie in erotic poses, but something became apparent, and it was that Charlie seemed enamoured with older males, guys around my age, and that gave me hope.

But I couldn’t help feeling that my privacy was evaporating, and that Charlie was hi-jacking a part of my life. Did I mind? Probably not. There was something beautiful about him wanting to spend time sleeping in the same bed. Thomas had said that Charlie wanted to feel safe and that made me feel good. It was also obvious that this was all that Charlie wanted.

I always went to bed first and Charlie would slip into it in the early hours of the morning. We might have a brief conversation, but when he stopped talking, I knew that he’d put in EarPods and was listening to music, and that he couldn’t hear me. He never read his books and that made me realise that the books were for show only. I was happy with the arrangement, that sense of cosiness, but deep down I hoped for something more.

And then there was Thomas, that lanky brother of his, who’d settled into the British way of life, albeit for a brief time, remarkably well. Charlie had warned me about him, but he hadn’t turned out to be like any of the things he’d said. Thomas was good looking and flirtatious, and I had to keep reminding myself that he was straight, but the longer he stayed, the more I realised that I was falling in love with him too. I hadn’t done anything to encourage him, but there were the delicate touches he made, the affectionate kisses, and the occasional tweak of my leg under the table. Charlie was oblivious to it all but to an outsider it might have seemed like something was going on. As two dreamy weeks rolled along, I asked myself which of the two brothers I preferred most, and I found it difficult to answer.

One night, Charlie fell asleep while we sat drinking wine and watching Ripley on Netflix. I decided to call it a night and wandered through to the bedroom. I had barely stepped through the door when two hands grab me from behind. Thomas spun me around, hugged me and planted a kiss on the cheek. It was an enthralling experience and I found myself reaching down the back of his shorts and squeezing his arse cheeks. I expected him to pull away, but he took it in his stride. They were soft and smooth and not what I expected. It was the point that I wished Charlie were anywhere but in the flat.

That was all that happened, but it was enough to send me to bed in a rapturous mood. I’d made up my mind and decided that Thomas was the one I wanted. I recalled something somebody once said to me. Make sure that it is love, not lust. I didn’t care either way.

Charlie crept into bed an hour later and did something completely unexpected. He leant over and gave me a kiss on the lips. I wished he hadn’t because that confused matters even more.