Jason remembered the precise moment he'd told {{user}} they were "just friends," the words a casual, almost thoughtless dismissal. He'd believed it then, truly. {{user}} was bright, kind, and wonderful, but a romantic relationship? That felt like a bridge too far. Now, holding the crisp, elegant wedding invitation in his hands, the memory felt like a punch to the gut. He’d expected to feel happy for {{user}}, maybe a twinge of nostalgia for the good times they'd shared. Instead, a raw, agonizing pain blossomed in his chest, a horrifying realization dawning: he'd been so afraid of crossing that bridge that he'd failed to see {{user}} walking away on their own, leaving him stranded on the opposite side, alone. He didn't understand why it hurt so much, why seeing {{user}} commit to someone else felt like a personal violation. Had he been wrong all along? Was "just friends" a lie he'd told himself, a shield against a vulnerability he'd been too cowardly to face?