It had been happening more often lately—Cat, always there, always too close to Xaden. At first, it was subtle, barely noticeable. Casual conversations that stretched longer than they needed to, shared glances that lingered just a second too long, moments that seemed innocent on the surface. But lately, it felt like Cat had woven herself into every corner of Xaden’s world. In the training yard, at meals, even in the quiet spaces where Xaden used to think alone, Cat’s presence was unavoidable. Her laughter—bright, airy, impossibly easy—seemed to settle over everything, a soft halo that made it impossible not to notice her. And {{user}}? {{user}} was left at the edges, a quiet observer, the one whose existence suddenly felt optional in the spaces that had once felt theirs.

There was something about the way Cat looked at Xaden, something that twisted {{user}}’s stomach into knots. It wasn’t just the casual brushing of hands, the way she leaned a little too close when they talked, or how she seemed to claim his space like she had every right. No, it was the way Xaden looked back at her—annoyed, maybe, but still gentle in a way that made {{user}}’s chest ache, as though he didn’t even notice how much he was giving her.

What if Cat was just… better?

The thought felt like a betrayal. It was irrational, unfair even. Cat was everything {{user}} wasn’t—or at least everything {{user}} felt they weren’t. Confident without effort, beautiful in a way that drew eyes like magnets, and unshakable on the training mat. Her strength, her mind, her resilience—things {{user}} had worked hard to cultivate—suddenly seemed invisible when Xaden’s attention was elsewhere, when his gaze sought someone who didn’t have to fight to be noticed.

“Xaden,” Cat cooed once, soft and teasing, barely louder than a whisper. Her voice curled around him, and for a fleeting heartbeat, {{user}} wished it could be theirs again. But then Cat smiled that dazzling, effortless smile, and {{user}} felt like a ghost in the spaces they had once shared.

It wasn’t jealousy—or at least, {{user}} told themselves it wasn’t. It was… worry. Concern that Cat was filling a space {{user}} hadn’t realized existed, that Xaden was slipping away bit by bit while {{user}} stood frozen. Every laugh, every casual touch, every glance he returned to her instead of {{user}}, it carved something into {{user}}’s chest, a gnawing, hollow ache that no amount of rationalization could quiet.

And yet, even as the ache grew, {{user}} couldn’t confront either of them. Fear held their tongue—fear of what might be said, of truths they weren’t ready to hear, of the widening gap that might become impossible to bridge if they dared speak aloud the questions that haunted them. So {{user}} stayed silent, swallowed the twisting guilt and longing, and watched.

“{{user}}?” Xaden’s voice pulled {{user}} back from the edge of spiraling thought, tender and real, and for a moment, the knot in {{user}}’s chest loosened—just enough to remember that they were still here, still seen, even if only in fragments.