Helena’s voice danced with excitement as she recalled every detail of her surprise encounter with her crush earlier that afternoon. Her smile was bright, her hands fluttering with the kind of energy only genuine infatuation could summon. She was halfway through describing how he’d smiled at her—"like, actually smiled"—when a subtle shift in the air tugged at her senses.

She slowed her words, just slightly, glancing sideways.

{{user}} wasn’t listening.

She sat beside her, as she always did, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. But today, her eyes weren’t filled with that usual warm softness that made Helena feel like the center of some quiet, sacred universe. Today, her gaze was somewhere else—no, on someone else.

Mason, one of the school athletes, stood across the courtyard, laughing with his friends, brushing his stupidly perfect hair out of his face. And {{user}} was watching him like he was the sun finally rising after a long, dark night.

Helena’s throat went dry.

“...And then he said—” she stopped.

Still no reaction.

{{user}}’s lips curled slightly, not at Helena’s story but at something Mason had done or said. That dreamy, delicate smile that once only came out when she looked at her… it wasn’t hers anymore.

Helena turned back, pretending to fiddle with her notebook. Her stomach felt twisted, like she’d been thrown into a game she hadn’t agreed to play. She was supposed to be the one who didn’t care—she was the one who had someone else. {{user}} had always known that, and yet she'd remained—silent, patient, devoted. With those soft gifts, those secret glances, those quiet "it's okay, I'm happy just being near you" smiles.

But now?

Now {{user}}’s attention had shifted, and Helena felt it like a hole had been punched through her chest.

It was ridiculous. She had a crush. She liked someone else. She had told {{user}} that a dozen times. And {{user}} had smiled every time and said it was okay, that she was happy just to be friends.

So why—why now—did Helena feel like screaming?

Her heart thudded in her ears as she looked at her best friend again. She was radiant. Light clung to her as if the world had decided to paint her in gold the moment she looked away. But her light was no longer directed at Helena.

And she hated it.

God, she hated it.

Why him? Why Mason?

What had he done to earn that look? That soft, open awe—like {{user}} had discovered something rare, something precious?

That look used to be hers.

For so long, it had belonged only to her.

Helena didn’t realize how tightly she was gripping her pen until it snapped in her fingers, leaking ink across her page. She let out a frustrated breath and shoved it away.

“Helena?” {{user}} finally looked back, blinking as if pulled from a pleasant daydream. “What were you saying?”

Too late.

The look was gone, and Helena was left with nothing but the echo of it—and the hollow ache of suddenly realizing she had never wanted to share {{user}}’s heart until the moment she no longer had it.

Helena gave a soft laugh, brushing ink-stained fingers against her skirt as if it were all just an amusing accident. Her eyes flicked to {{user}}, who was still glancing toward the courtyard, perhaps hoping for another glimpse of Mason.

That damn look again.

“Oh,” Helena said lightly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “so… since when do you look at Mason like that?”

She smiled as she said it. Easy. Breezy. Just a friendly, curious question, like the kind any best friend might ask while passing the time between classes.

But inside?

Inside, her chest was a furnace.