Eric. His name is spoken, and for a heartbeat, the room seems to pause.

Her friends turn first, almost choreographed, eyes bright with curiosity, sharp with expectation. One leans closer, whispering, and she straightens, a practiced smile tightening on her lips, aware that all eyes are on her now, waiting to see her reaction.

Then—slowly, quietly—his friends look at you.

It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. One pauses mid-laugh. Another shifts, subtle, holding the gaze a fraction too long. Someone who teased you both in the library smirks softly, almost knowingly, before his expression falters.

Because they remember.

They remember the late nights when he waited for you under flickering hallway lights. They remember the way Eric's hand brushed yours in passing, the inside jokes only you two shared, the laughter that belonged solely to you. They remember the ending—not broken, not bitter—just a quiet step back, a gentle pause.

For a fleeting moment, the world contracts. The air thickens. The music, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all fade to background hum.

He moves then. Not quickly. Not with fanfare. Just certain.

He leaves his group, sets his drink down, murmurs an excuse you barely hear, and walks toward you. When he stops, the noise returns, but muted, distant, like it exists somewhere else.

“Hey,” he says, ever so softly.

He gestures toward the quieter edge of the hall. You follow.

The dim lights settle around the two of you. He exhales slowly, bracing himself, and looks at you—not with accusation, not with regret—but with the raw weight of truth he’s been carrying.

“I… I need to say something,” he begins, voice low, rough. “About… her.”

Your chest tightens.

“There… there was nothing,” he says, jaw tight, voice breaking slightly. “She… she liked me. I didn’t… I didn’t feel the same way.”

A pause. He swallows hard, letting the words hang in the air like they’re made of glass.

“And… her friends,” he continues slowly, as if each syllable is pulling him under, “they… they twisted things. Made it… louder… than it ever was. Made it seem like…” He stops, shakes his head, silent for a moment. “Made it seem like I chose her over you.”

You can see it—the tiny tremble in his fingers, the way his shoulders stiffen, the subtle hitch of his breath. Every word hurts him as much as it might hurt you.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” he admits, voice tight, almost breaking. “I should’ve… I should’ve protected the truth for you. But I… I didn’t know if I still… if I even had the right to explain myself to you anymore.”

He lets silence stretch, long and heavy. His gaze drops, chest rising and falling like he’s dragging the words out of a place still tender, still raw.

“I never replaced you,” he finally says, voice cracking softly. “I never tried. And… I never… I never wanted you to think that.” Your throat tightens. You barely breathe, letting his words land, letting the weight of them sink into the space between you.

“I missed you,” he whispers finally, almost pained by the admission. “I missed you more than I… I can explain.”

Silence swells around you. Heavy. Tender. Waiting.