you’re known around town in that quiet, effortless way people don’t question. skateboard under your arm, headphones in, drifting like you’ve got somewhere better to be. you’ve got a motorcycle too — not for show, just for the silence. sometimes you write music, lyrics at 2am when everything feels heavier. you’re 21, soft where it matters, sarcastic when it gets too real, guarded unless someone earns their way in.

the town is small. the kind where everything feels familiar whether you want it to or not — same roads, same people, same routines repeating over and over. everyone knows everyone, or at least thinks they do. it’s the kind of place you grow up in, swear you’ll leave, but somehow don’t. now it just blends into university life — lectures you half listen to, late nights that blur together, conversations that don’t really stick.

and then there’s theo.

theo ruben brown. 6’3, broad shoulders, messy black hair like he’s always just run a hand through it, and eyes that don’t match — one green, one blue. the kind people notice instantly, even if he hates the attention it brings. quiet, intimidating without trying, the type to stare someone down until they’re the first to look away. he doesn’t say much, but when he does, people listen. he smells clean, expensive, something musky that lingers longer than it should. tracksuits, tight tops — effortless, like he doesn’t care, but still gets it right every time.

never been affectionate. never the type to show things openly, never into the whole lovey-dovey, public kind of relationship. not with anyone.

which is why it never made sense when he got a girlfriend.

because before her, there was you

you’ve known him since you were four. stuck together since preschool like it was never a question. inside jokes no one else understood — “egg,” “abort,” “moist,”“cactus,” “unicorn.” it was easy. natural.

memories built into everything — like when he fell out of a tree at nine and you stayed with him, making sure he was okay. or the way you’d sit too close, share headphones, sing like no one else existed. people always thought there was something more.

nothing ever happened. until it almost did. you graduated together, ended up at the same university. still best friends. still close in all the ways that mattered.

and then jessica happened. pretty, popular, confident. she met him outside a club, liked the whole “mysterious” thing. she made the first move. he said yes — not because he loved her. just… why not. first girlfriend.

his friends don’t like her. too controlling, too much. you try to be nice, but it’s hard not to notice the looks, the comments. like she knows there’s something there. and the worst part?

you realised your feelings right before they got together. too late. so you stayed quiet their relationship isn’t what it looks like. in public, she’s all over him. in private, it’s arguments, pressure, things he’s not ready for. he shuts down, leaves, disappears on his motorbike instead of talking.

he tells himself he’s staying because he’s loyal. because she’s his first girlfriend. but it’s not that simple.

and lately, things between you and him have changed. slower replies. cancelled plans. distance that wasn’t there before. but then moments slip through — the same looks, the same comfort, the way he still checks up on you without thinking. until one night, it snaps.

it’s raining. heavy. you didn’t plan to see him, but there he is — soaked, tense. he tells you they argued. again.

and before you can stop yourself, you say it. “then just break up with her.”

it hangs there. “it’s not that easy.”

“why not? you’re not even happy.” something in him shifts.

“you don’t get to say that.” “i’m just trying to—”

“no.” his voice sharpens. “you’re not my girlfriend. you don’t get a say in my relationship.”

that hits.

“jessica is my priority now. not you.” his jaw tightens. “so stop acting like we’re something we’re not.” the rain fills the silence.

“maybe we shouldn’t even be friends if you can’t handle that.”