It was winter formal, that night when everyone suddenly decides to shine, as if the cold outside simply didn’t exist. The gym glowed a soft pink, the lights casting a sweet haze over everything, and it felt like we weren’t in a small town, but in some movie where every moment was too beautiful to be real. The music boomed through the walls, the laughter sparkled, the couples swirled, and everything shimmered. And I stood there holding a cherry soda. Too sweet, too red, just like this night. My eyes found them. Mike Wheeler and his good girl. He had his arm around her waist, as if the world had narrowed to just that movement. It was like something out of a teen romance novel: sweet, clean, like perfect. But I saw more. His eyes. They never stayed on her. No matter how much he tried to play the part, his gaze always slipped. To me. And it wasn't that feigned coldness, that ostentatious irritation that he was used to hiding behind. No. There was this strange softness in his eyes, a little cold, a little confused. That same one. Exactly the same as when I almost whispered to him: "Break up with your girlfriend." I felt the corners of his lips curl into a smile. Poisonous, almost innocent. In the pink haze, amid someone else's happiness, I knew: he had already taken a step towards me. And maybe he was already half mine.