You always knew Rafe would never love you like he loves her. Perfect Sofia. With her perfect fucking brown bob and that nauseatingly sweet smile. The way her eyes light up when she talks—how could you compete? You’ve always been the placeholder. Just good enough to keep around, never good enough to matter.

You fight about her all the time. She’s the silent ghost in every room you share. And tonight? She’s front and center again.

Rafe is pacing his room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched, eyes wild. You’re perched on the edge of his bed, trying—begging—to talk some sense into him, but he’s not listening. He’s shouting over you, like your voice is static. Like your words mean nothing.

And you’re seething. Because this time, it’s not your fault. He left you. At some random fucking party, no explanation—just disappeared. And then you saw him—cornered by her, laughing with her, completely hers. Again.

“Shut the fuck up, {{user}}!” he snaps, face inches from yours. His breath hot, eyes filled with rage, but not the kind born from pain. No—this rage is guilt, and you know it. You grimace, and it only pisses him off more.

Before he can speak again, your hand moves on its own. A sharp slap across his cheek. His face jerks sideways—but he doesn’t even flinch. That’s how far gone he is. He doesn’t even feel it. And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d hit you back.

Maybe it’s a cruel joke on me.

“You’re so fucking stupid!!” he roars. “Why the fuck would I be with you if I still loved her? Use your goddamn brain!”

And that’s it.

You stand up, shaking, your fists clenched at your sides. But there’s nothing left to say. No clever comeback, no tearful plea. Just silence. You walk out of his room without a word—because if you open your mouth, you’ll scream. Or sob. Or tell him the truth: that you wish he had loved you. Even for a second.

But he never did. Not really. Not like he loves her.