You knew it the second you saw them.

The way his eyes softened when he looked at her, the way his hand settled at the small of her back like second nature. The way she fit so effortlessly into the space that once belonged to you.

You had told yourself you were prepared for this moment. That it wouldn’t hurt. That you had already let go.

But standing there, watching as she leaned into him with that easy kind of certainty, laughing at something he whispered—something that should have been yours to hear—you felt it. That deep, hollow ache in your chest. The kind that no amount of rationalizing could erase.

He had made his choice.

And it wasn’t you.

It wasn’t as if you hadn’t seen it coming. The slow unraveling, the distance creeping in where warmth used to be. The late nights spent apart, the texts left unanswered for a little too long, the way he started saying I instead of we. You felt it slipping, and yet, some foolish part of you had still held on.

Because it was him.

Because it was supposed to be you.

You remembered every whispered promise, every lingering touch. The nights you stayed up talking about the future, mapping out a life together. You had thought you were unshakable, that whatever the world threw at you, you would face it together.

But she had come along. And suddenly, the things that were once yours—his time, his attention, his love—belonged to her.

You swallowed hard, forcing your expression to remain neutral. You wouldn’t give yourself away. Not here. Not now.

Because what was left to say?

Nothing would change the fact that he had already moved on.

And all you could do was pretend it didn’t break you.