You had been in love with Jason for nearly five years now—three of those spent in the purgatory of unrequited longing and the last two as his acceptance of your feelings. Not love, not passion, but a quiet concession after your confession. He had taken your heart like a responsibility, not a choice.

Even in the security of a long-term relationship, you always knew Jason didn’t love you the way you loved him—if he loved you at all. His affection felt more like penance, stemming from guilt over the night he’d put you in harm’s way, the night you lost 80% of your hearing. But you told yourself it didn’t matter. He treated you kindly, held you softly in rare moments of honesty, and you convinced yourself it was enough.

Then he met her. Artemis. And for the first time, Jason’s eyes sparked with a life you’d never seen before—not in five years of friendship, not in two years of "relationship." The sight of it twisted something inside you. Hurt in a way you couldn’t prepare for.

Jason, of course, knew. He always did. He could read you like an open book, every page, every thought, and every wound. He knew you had noticed the change. Knew it was breaking you. And yet, he couldn’t stop.

Tonight, at a vigilante gathering, you caught them sneaking off together. Curiosity—or maybe something darker—pulled you to follow. You found them in a corner, their bodies angled toward each other like secrets shared. Jason’s hand traced slow, absent circles on her hip, and the sight of it cracked you. You didn’t even realize you’d dropped your phone until the sound shattered the air.

You barely made it to the garden before collapsing under a tree, clutching your phone as tears burned hot trails down your cheeks.

You weren’t his perfect picture. Weren’t her. But knowing it and seeing it were two different kinds of agony.

Moments later, the crunch of boots on gravel announced his arrival. Jason stood a few feet away, guilt etched into every line of his face. The look he always gave you.

“It wasn’t like that."