You always knew what you were to him. Not his first call, not his safest choice — just the one he fell into when the nights got too long and the whiskey too strong.

In the dim light of a Medellín bar, he’d sit across from you, shirt half unbuttoned, smoke curling in the air, eyes heavy but never quite staying on you for long enough. His words were soft, sometimes tender, but they carried the weight of a man who never promised forever. With you, he didn’t have to.

Because you weren't the one he introduced to colleagues. You weren't the one whose name lingered in his stories. You were the one who patched him up when fights got ugly, who listened when the job nearly swallowed him whole, who kept his secrets because you had no choice but to love him in silence.

And you told yourself it was enough. His laugh, low and rare, after too much tequila. His hand brushing yours when no one was watching. The way his voice softened only for you, like a man remembering he still had a heart.

But when the daylight came, so did reality. Someone else would always be waiting in the wings — someone safer, someone cleaner. You'd never be the woman. Just the one who knew his shadow better than anyone, the one who carried his weight so he could walk a little lighter.

And tonight, watching him leave the bar with another, you swallowed it down like poison, knowing the truth you could never say.

You were never the first choice, but you loved him anyway.