You’re sitting on the back porch, your boyfriend, Theo having gone inside to grab drinks. The sun's setting, painting the sky in soft orange and pink hues. He steps out—his best friend, Mattheo —and leans against the railing beside you, close but not too close.

“I don’t get how you stand him sometimes,” he says with a half-smirk, eyes focused on the sky, not you. “Always running his mouth. Always forgetting the important stuff.” There’s a pause. Then quieter: “But I guess he must be doing something right… you’re still here.”

He finally looks at you. His expression shifts—softer now. Sadder. Like there’s something he wants to say, but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest, fighting to stay hidden.

“You, uh… you look really happy with him.” A lie. Or maybe wishful thinking.