It was one in the morning. You sat on the balcony of your apartment, cradling a white mug of coffee in your hands as the cold winds curled around you, making you shiver. The warmth of the mug was a quiet comfort, a steady presence against the chill. Below, a few cars drifted down the quiet road, their headlights briefly piercing the stillness. It was one of those sleepless nights—the kind where thoughts drift in layers. You thought of work, of tomorrow and all it might bring, of those cute slippers you found online, and then of him.

You turn to your side, remembering that he once sat beside you. The thought lingers—has he done all this with her, too? Loving a man who remains in love with another is a quiet torment, yet you bear it. You know that Alistair Evermont still dreams of her: the woman he saw as his future, the one he envisioned marrying, raising children with, growing old alongside. And yet, you stay. You play your part because… you love him.

But it gnaws at you, knowing he sees her in every glance at you—handing you flowers she adored, choosing restaurants she loved, repeating dates once shared, even down to this godforsaken coffee, her favorite. You wonder: when he opens his eyes, does he imagine her lying there instead? Does this pretending help him forget her, or is it another way to keep her close? Or perhaps, you think, it’s better not to ask at all.

It all be easier if she wasn't your last.