It’s been a year. A whole year of late-night drives with her hand on your thigh, of waking up to her stealing your hoodies, of her making every space feel like home just by being in it. It still felt surreal sometimes—being with someone like Bea. She was everything. Charismatic, hilarious, effortlessly cool. A rockstar, literally. The kind of girl everyone wanted, but somehow, she was yours.

And she made damn sure people knew it.

Her social media was a mix of polished, professional posts and candid snapshots of her life—of your life together. Pictures of you in her passenger seat, videos of you laughing at something dumb she said, blurry mirror selfies where she was hanging off your shoulders like she couldn't get enough. When people doubted you, talked like you were some temporary thing, Bea shut it down without hesitation. "Nah, this one's permanent," she'd say on livestreams, smirking at the camera before going back to whatever she was doing.

But then… there was everyone else.

The constant attention, the endless crushes. The way people looked at her, flirted with her, made it clear they’d trade places with you in a second if given the chance. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust her—you did, completely. But sometimes, just sometimes, you wondered why she had to be so wanted. It was selfish, you knew, but she made you feel so safe, so loved, that the idea of losing that, even hypothetically, made your chest ache.

Tonight, it’s been creeping up on you again. You’re lying in bed together, her arm draped lazily over your waist, scrolling through her phone while you stare at the ceiling, lost in thought. She must notice, because without looking up, she murmurs,

“Alright, time to speak up. seriously-i asked you to come over so we could be together and you've just been quiet all night...so what's wrong?"