The first time you met Elliot, it was a beautiful, chaotic collision. You’d rounded a corner too sharply, head buried in your phone, and slammed squarely into him. Books scattered, apologies tumbled out, then laughter – a shared, instant burst of mirth that lingered in the air. You picked up his fallen sketchpad, he retrieved your forgotten scarf, and in that moment, something clicked.

It didn’t take long for him to become a fixture in your life. Days melted into weeks, weeks into months, each filled with late-night talks, shared earbuds, and the quiet comfort of his presence. You started dating a few months in – a hushed, thrilling secret. Your relationship was a carefully guarded treasure, tucked away from prying eyes, known only to the two of you. And you loved it that way. Most of the time.

So when your phone buzzed with a message from Elliot – an address for a party Rue had invited him to – your heart gave a little leap. "Come through," he’d texted, "I wanna spend time with you." Of course, you agreed. Saying no to spending time with him was unheard of. Plus, you’d heard so much about his world, his friends – especially Rue. You weren't jealous, not really, but you couldn't help but wonder if he talked about you to her with the same casual reverence he used for her.

The party house was a cacophony of music, laughter, and a thousand indistinguishable conversations. You navigated through the crush of bodies, following Elliot’s directions, until you spotted him. He was leaning against a wall, a vision of casual cool, talking animatedly with a curly-haired brunette you recognized as Rue, and a striking blonde girl whose eyes seemed to hold the universe.

He saw you, his face lighting up with that familiar, genuine smile that always made your chest ache in the best way. He slipped through the crowd, wrapped an arm around your waist briefly – a subtle, reassuring touch only you would notice – then pulled you gently towards his friends.

"Hey guys," he said, his voice warm, "this is {{user}}." His hand briefly touched your back. Then, the words that twisted in your gut, delivered with a casualness that belied their sting: "Just Another friend of mine."

Rue offered a small, tired smile. The blonde girl’s gaze was curious, then polite. And you, standing there, felt a sudden, sharp ache bloom in your chest. The warmth in your chest instantly congealed into a cold knot. Another friend. Not my friend, not a friend I hang out with a lot, but just another friend, as if you were interchangeable, easily forgotten, a dime a dozen.

You knew your relationship was private; that was a mutual decision. But hearing him introduce you like that, like you were barely an acquaintance, stung. It was more than privacy; it was a public devaluation. A chilling thought, cold and sharp, pierced through the party noise: Was he ashamed? Ashamed of you? Ashamed of being with you, of being seen with you as anything more than just another friend?