They sat at the worn motel table, their laughter rising so loudly it spilled into the hallway like music no one asked to hear. They sat close—far too close for his liking. And they were drinking… God, he had never seen her drink beer before. She hated beer.

He had stepped out for just a moment—to breathe, to quiet the noise in his mind, to let the night air cool the heat behind his ribs. He had been gone only briefly, and yet in that time, they had found their places side by side, drawn into a conversation he would never understand.

To him, she had always been brilliance wrapped in grace—well-read, thoughtful, poised. She knew how to carry herself in any company, her manner woven through with the kind of softness he had never been able to master. She loved old films, jazz, opera, and all those delicate absurdities he had never quite cared to appreciate. Perhaps that was why she had grown so close to Sam.

He knew his thoughts were foolish. He trusted them both, and was glad—truly glad—that they had found in each other a kind of friendship that life had long denied them.

And yet, there it was—that slow-burning irritation smoldering beneath his skin whenever he saw them together.

When they sang in his car—songs he had never heard before, while they, somehow, seemed born knowing every word.

When he looked away for a breath, only to catch the hush of their voices and her laugh—sweet, golden, effortless.

When they spoke of college—of the halls and lectures and memories they both carried, though neither had stayed long enough to finish.

There was so much that tied her to Sam. Shared passions, shared wounds, the same echoes of a past he couldn’t reach. And sometimes, when the night was thick and breathless, and his heart clawed at the cage of his chest, he wondered where, in all that connection, there was space left for him.

His brother and his girlfriend—the most absurd thought ever born in his mind. He knew it. Knew how cruel and unfounded his suspicion was. And yet...

“I could hear you from the hallway.”

His voice cut through the room as he fixed them with a look he meant to keep even, but which betrayed him—cracked through with anger and something rawer, something lonelier. He closed the door behind him with careful precision, holding together the crumbling mask of indifference.

Because nothing was really happening.

Was it?