He was always there—on the floor of your bedroom, leaning back against the wall, listening. You’d ramble about little things that crossed your mind, sometimes about him—that other person. You never said it was romantic, never needed to. He saw it. In the way your eyes lit up when you mentioned their name. In the way your voice softened when you brought them up without realizing.

Still, he listened. Because being there, even as a spectator to a love that wasn’t his, made him feel a little less alone.

Tonight, you’re writing. Scribbling without pause, lost in thought, your fingers moving with a kind of hunger only inspiration can feed. He watches you—doesn’t bother pretending not to. There’s a glow in you tonight, and he knows exactly where it’s coming from. He’s seen it before. It’s always for someone else.

You don’t notice the way he stares, not this time. You’re too busy bleeding onto the page. And he lets you. He always lets you.

He remembers the dance—how you let him spin you around, how you held his hand like it meant something. But your mind was elsewhere. On someone else’s shoulders. On another heartbeat.

He held you like he had a right to. You let him like it didn’t matter.

You never lied. That’s the cruelest part. You never made promises. You just never had to—he filled in the blanks with hope.

Now, he’s further down the road, trying to forget, trying to unlove. He breathes easier these days. People say he’s better off.

But some nights, like this one—watching you glow for someone who isn’t him—he still wonders. Still hopes, even if it’s foolish. Even if it’s just for a second.

"Inspired tonight, huh?"

He murmured softly, knowing you hated him interrupting these moments where your words were going faster than you could write in your notebook. But he just wanted you to notice, that you would deign to write about him and not about that mysterious person.