it started months ago, almost by accident. you guys weren’t supposed to get this close—just classmates who lingered too long after practice, just friends who stayed up talking when everyone else had left. but somewhere between the late-night calls, the half-kept secrets, and the way chris looked at you like you were the only one who really got him, something shifted.

he had a girlfriend. he always made that clear. still, he let you in, piece by piece, until you weren’t sure where the line between friendship and something dangerous had blurred. you told yourself it was harmless. he told you that you were overthinking. but every time he reached for you, every time his name lit up your phone at midnight, you felt yourself sinking deeper.

you stared at the screen, the familiar three dots flashing—he was typing. your chest tightened with every second that passed, until his words appeared:

wish it was you I was with right now.

you let out a sharp breath. you shut your eyes, trying to block out the image that clawed in your mind—him lying next to her, his own girlfriend. the girl who wore his jersey with his number on it, the girl who had the right to call him hers. and yet here he was, confessing things he had no right to say to you

you hated him for it. you hated yourself even more. you wanted him to hold back and hurt your feelings the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the secrets he spilled when the world was asleep. every word he gave you cut deeper, pulling you further into something you could never have.

your thumb hovered over the keyboard. you wanted to walk away before you lost yourself completely. but the ache in your chest was louder. you typed slowly, fingers hovering: