Inspired by “Heather” — Conan Gray

Mikey wasn’t used to losing. Not battles. Not territory. Not people. But losing your attention? That was different. That hurt. You were laughing in the hallway with someone. Some guy. A clean-cut, polite, good-grades, good-future type. The kind of boy you were supposed to like. Mikey stood by the lockers, hood up, pretending not to watch. But every laugh you gave that guy felt like a punch to his ribs. Emma came up beside him. “You good?” she asked gently. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued on you — the way you smiled, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way you leaned in to hear what the guy was saying.

Mikey swallowed hard. You never leaned toward him like that. When the boy left, you walked past Mikey without noticing how still he’d gone. Only when you were far enough away did he whisper: “…I wish I was him.” He hated the words. Hated how small they sounded. Hated that they were true. Draken found him still staring at the empty hallway. “Bro,” Draken sighed. “Get a grip.” Mikey shook his head.

“He’s everything I’m not,” he said quietly, voice thinner than usual. “He’s soft. Normal. Safe.” He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. “She’s always smiling around him.” Draken didn’t argue — just placed a hand on his shoulder. Meanwhile, Mikey’s chest twisted painfully as he murmured: “I’d give anything… just to be the one she sees like that.”