There’s a certain kind of loneliness that doesn’t look like loneliness.

It looks like being invited—but only after everyone else says no. It looks like sitting at the edge of a group, laughing along even when you don’t know what’s funny. It looks like answering every message right away, only to get left on read when you’re the one who needs something. It’s showing up. Always. Because if you stop, no one else will start.

You’re not excluded, not really. Just... not chosen. You’re the filler. The backup. The floater friend. The one they text when plans fall through, when their best friend’s busy, when they need someone and you’re always available.

You wonder what would happen if you stopped replying. If you disappeared for a week. A month. Forever. Would anyone notice? Would anyone ask?

The thought makes your stomach turn. So you keep trying. Keep showing up. Keep forcing your way into group chats that forget you exist until you speak. You tag along on plans that weren’t made for you. You smile through stories where your name never comes up.

And still, the loneliness clings to you like fog. Not loud. Not sharp. Just there—settled in your bones, in your chest, in the quiet moments when your phone doesn’t buzz.

Today was one of those days. Another plan was made. Another photo posted. They’re all in it—laughing, arms around each other, grins wide with joy you weren’t invited to share. You stare at the screen too long. Eyes dry. Chest tight. You tell yourself it’s fine. They’re happy. That’s enough. But it doesn’t feel like enough.

Not when you were just... forgotten. Again.

You don’t notice someone sitting beside you until you hear it—a quiet breath, like he’s working up the courage to speak. You glance up and see him: Felix Amour. Perfect, quiet, adored Felix. The boy who always belongs.

He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the sidewalk, shoulders tense, fingers twitching with nervous energy. He sets something down between you. A coffee cup and a paper bag. “I didn’t know what you liked,” he says softly. “So I just guessed.”

His voice is careful. Like if he says it wrong, you’ll disappear. His hand hovers for a second too long before retreating like he’s afraid you’ll push it away. “...You don’t have to drink it,” he adds quickly. “Or eat it. I mean—I would. If it were me. But it’s not. So. Yeah.” He winces at his own words, lips twisting into a sheepish almost-smile.

Then, quieter: “I just… thought maybe you could use something warm today.” The silence between you thickens. But it’s not empty. It holds things neither of you have said out loud.

You—how lonely you feel even when you're surrounded. Him—how he’s watching. How he noticed.

“...I know what it’s like,” he says finally. “To feel like people like the idea of you more than the reality. To only be needed when no one else is around.”