William wasn’t yours. He was never yours. But you watched him like he was — like he might turn around and see you standing there if you stared hard enough.

The party was loud. Everything felt warped and underwater. The bass rattled through the walls, someone’s laughter cracked too sharp in the hallway, and the room tilted every time you blinked. You were drunk — the kind of drunk that made your hands float and your chest ache for no real reason.

William was across the room, slouched on a couch that had definitely seen better years, legs sprawled, red cup dangling from loose fingers. His hair was a mess, cheeks flushed from whatever he’d been drinking, or maybe just from how warm the room had gotten.

Her legs were across his lap. She wasn’t even really paying attention — scrolling through something on her phone — but he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing. Like he didn’t care that people were shouting, or that someone had just spilled something sticky on the carpet next to them.

You hated that you noticed everything about him. The way he smiled with just one side of his mouth. The way he fidgeted when he was too tired to hold himself still. The way he looked at her like she was a memory he didn’t want to forget.

And the worst part was — you couldn’t even blame him.

Because she was your best friend. And she was beautiful. And she made people feel like they were in on a secret just by standing next to her.

You told yourself you were happy for them. That you were fine.

But here you were, pressed against a chipped kitchen counter, eyes locked on someone you could never have, letting the music drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.

You told yourself it didn’t hurt. But it did. Quietly. Constantly.

And he didn’t even know.