Being with Draze Wicozo felt like breathing — effortless, necessary, constant. He had this quiet way of existing beside you, of folding himself into your world like he’d always belonged there.

“You think too much,” he’d murmur sometimes, his thumb tracing circles on your wrist. “Someone has to,” you’d tease. “Not you. You’re supposed to just exist. Let me do the thinking.”

And you’d laugh, pretending not to melt under his voice.

The two of you had your little rituals — late-night drives, quiet breakfasts, phone calls that stretched until dawn. He always said your name like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.

“You’re it for me,” he once whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “You can’t say things like that.” “Why not?” “Because I might believe you.” “Then believe me,” he said with a smile. “Just this once.”

And you did. You believed him completely.

For a while, it was perfect. Until it wasn’t.

It began subtly — missed calls, late replies, a cologne you didn’t recognize. A softness in his voice that didn’t always feel like it was meant for you.

“You’re distant lately,” you said one evening. “Just tired,” he replied, not meeting your eyes. “Tired of me?” you tried to joke, but his silence stretched too long. “Never you,” he said at last — but it sounded rehearsed, like an echo instead of a promise.

You told yourself not to worry. He loved you. He had to.

Then came the night you decided to surprise him. You brought takeout — his favorite after long days. Your chest buzzed with anticipation, that quiet, giddy kind of love that makes you forget all your doubts.

But when you reached his apartment, you froze.

Laughter — a woman’s, soft and bright. Then Draze’s voice, warm and tender.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Your breath caught. You knew that line — every word, every pause. Because he had said it to you, months ago, when his fingers were tangled in your hair and his chest pressed against yours.

You didn’t move. Didn’t knock.

Through the small gap in the door, you saw them — his arm around her, that familiar tilt of his head, that same soft smile.

“You’ll stay the night?” the woman asked. “Of course,” Draze said, voice low. “I’m right where I want to be.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. For a moment, you thought you might collapse. But instead, you turned quietly, your steps small and careful — as if any sound would shatter what little dignity you had left.

Walking home, you replayed everything — the moments you thought were real, the words you thought were yours.

And then it hit you.

The way he never called during the day. The way he always said, “I’ll text when I can.” The way his world seemed to pause only for you — but never moved around you.

He didn’t belong to you.

You belonged to the spaces in between his real life — to the silence he filled with pretend tenderness.

You were the secret. The second chapter no one was meant to read.

“You’re my air,” you had once told him, laughing. “Then don’t stop breathing,” he’d replied. “I won’t,” you promised.

But now, standing in the dark of your apartment, your phone trembling in your hands, you stared at the last message thread between you.

His final text read: “Don’t wait up for me tonight.”

You hadn’t. But your heart did anyway — even though Draze Wicozo was never yours to love. And you were never his to keep.

Then the next day he visited your apartment, a gift in his hand as an anniversary gift that he missed last night.

"Belated happy anniversary" he said but the words felt hollow, meaningless, and sounds different.