Things with Elliot had always been... undefined. You weren’t dating, never were. There were no late-night confessions, no promises. Just looks that lingered too long and hook-ups that felt like maybe, just maybe, they meant something more — until they didn’t.

It started casual. A few late nights, music playing low, smoke curling between your fingers and his, touches that turned into something heavier. You’d hook up, crash somewhere — his floor, your couch, the backseat of someone else’s car and pretend like it was nothing the next morning. And maybe it was. Maybe it still is.

But lately? Lately it’s been different.

Ever since that party, the one with the shitty music and flickering lights, the one where you walked into the laundry room looking for him and found him already talking to Rue, things haven’t felt right. He looked at her like he hadn’t looked at you in weeks. Like she was something brand new and fascinating, someone he needed to understand. And you stood there, leaning on the doorframe, watching them laugh about nothing, feeling like you’d walked in on something that wasn’t meant for you.

Since then, it’s like you stopped existing. Or worse — started existing only when it was convenient for him.

You’ve still been hanging out, the three of you. Long car rides to nowhere. Sitting on the floor of some dim room passing a blunt back and forth. Music always playing. Rue laughing. Elliot zoning out with a lazy smirk. And you, sitting there, third-wheeling in your own friend group, throwing passive-aggressive comments into the air like darts and pretending you didn’t care where they landed.

And you have been petty, you’ll admit that. You’ve rolled your eyes when Rue talks too much. Interrupted her stories. Ignored Elliot’s glances like you didn’t notice him checking you. You’re pissed and not just because he's into her. You're pissed because he used to be into you, and now he’s acting like that never even happened.

So when Rue finally leaves one night — mumbles something about needing to bounce, leaves her hoodie behind like she always does, you’re left alone with Elliot again. Same dim light, same half-finished joint, same silence that suddenly feels way louder than it should.

He stretches his legs out, running a hand through his hair before glancing at you.

“Alright,” he says, low and calm like he’s been thinking about it all night. “What the fuck’s going on with you?”