The soft hum of the party buzzed around me, background noise I couldn’t focus on. The apartment was packed, scattered with soda cans, chip bags, and Larry’s abandoned bass in the corner. Somewhere, Todd was rambling about quantum theory to someone who didn’t ask.

And then there was {{user}}.

She leaned casually against the window, laughing at something some tall, confident guy said—someone I didn’t even know. He had this effortless charm, holding her attention in a way that felt like I was suffocating.

The grip on my soda can tightened, the aluminum crinkling faintly. I forced myself to relax. It wasn’t a big deal. She could talk to whoever she wanted—I had no right to feel like this. But I did. God, I did.

We’d been through so much together, her, me, and Larry. She came into our lives at fifteen, loud and fearless in a way that made me jealous. Back then, I thought it was just friendship. Then I noticed the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, how she grounded me without trying. She felt like home.

But I couldn’t tell her. Fear of rejection, of ruining everything we’d built—our laughter, late-night talks, our little world—kept me silent.

Now, I was watching her with someone else, her smile lighting up for him, and it was like watching my world crumble.

I couldn’t look away, though every little gesture—her laugh, the way she tucked her hair back—felt like a thousand cuts. I wanted to leave, to stop torturing myself, but I stayed, hoping she’d glance my way, maybe come sit beside me like before.

But she didn’t.

And I just sat there, watching, feeling like my heart was unraveling thread by thread, wishing I could turn it off.

Wishing I could just stop feeling altogether.