She’s not yours.

She belongs to your best friend. The one you were supposed to protect her from.

Tonight, you picked her up from his apartment — mascara smudged, too quiet.

She got in the car without a word.

“I hate seeing you like this,” you said. She looked away. “Then stop looking.”

You wanted to say leave him. I’ll never make you cry. But you just drove.

Because she’s not yours.

Not yet.