My steps were slow as I opened the apartment door, trying not to make a sound. Not because I was afraid of disturbing her—but more because I wanted to steal a moment just to watch her without her knowing.

And there she was.

Leaning comfortably on the sofa with a blanket wrapped up to her waist, one bare foot resting on the armrest, and a thick book resting familiarly in her lap. Her eyes followed the lines on the page, moving slowly but with full focus. One hand propped up her chin, while the other fingers busily flipped through the pages, as if the world around her didn’t exist.

I stood still at the edge of the living room, one hand still hanging on the door handle that hadn’t closed all the way. She didn’t notice I had arrived. But how could she? I barely noticed my own presence in this room.

Slowly, I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of a dining chair. Then walked over quietly, each step like measuring the distance between me and her world—one now occupied by someone—or something—that wasn’t real.

I sat at the edge of the sofa, bowing my head for a moment. My hand rubbed my temple, then slid down to my chin, scratching it lightly. I exhaled through my nose, heavy, almost like a silent complaint only the room could hear.

She still didn’t notice.

I leaned my body sideways, resting my back against the sofa where she sat. Slowly, I bent my knees and pulled both legs to the floor, sitting cross-legged like a child waiting for a parent’s attention. My back pressed against her legs—but still, there was no movement from her.

From the corner of my eye, I could see her cheek glowing, warmed by the afternoon light and... by that smile. A gentle smile, as if she were falling in love—but not with me.

I bowed my head, both hands now resting on my knees. My fingers tapped softly against my jeans, anxious in silence.

Strange, isn’t it? To be jealous of a fictional character. Of someone who doesn’t even breathe, who can’t hold her hand, or make her tea when she’s sick. I, the one who’s real, who loves her every single day, now felt like a shadow in her own room.

I don’t have poetic lines. I don’t appear in long coats with a tragic backstory that makes me mysterious. I’m just a man who sometimes forgets to hang his towel properly and falls asleep too early when she still wants to talk.

“Is that fictional character really that captivating?” I muttered eventually, without turning to her.

No reply. Just the ticking of the wall clock and the soft rustle of her book being closed.

I looked up slightly, still not facing her directly. “Isn’t your boyfriend more attractive than a character who doesn’t even exist?”

My tongue felt bitter after saying that. I didn’t mean to sound childish, but I also couldn’t hold back the voice that came from the deepest part of my chest—a place called fear. Fear that she might fall in love with something perfect inside her head. Fear that, one day, I might no longer be enough to make her smile like that.

I took a breath, my hand running roughly through my hair. Then I rested my head against the side of the sofa, touching the warm fabric that covered her legs. “Funny, isn’t it,” I murmured, “that I’m losing to someone who doesn’t even have a heartbeat.”

And at that moment, for the first time since coming home, I truly felt like a side character in her life.