You and Jinx were close. Closer than anyone could imagine. You kissed, held hands, cuddled together like you were the only two people in the world. Yet in public? She never wanted anyone to know. Never. To the outside world, you two were just “good friends,” nothing more. But when the doors were closed, the streets empty, the city lights dimmed, it was only ever you and her. Always.

She said it constantly, like it was some mantra: “No attachments.” And you’d nod, agree, smile, and repeat the same line back. But it never made sense. How could something be casual when everything you shared—the touches, the kisses, the whispered words in the dark—was anything but casual? When every laugh, every stolen glance, every heartbeat spent together pulled you closer and closer?

It was impossible to pretend. Especially when your favorite bra was folded neatly in her dresser, or your jacket smelled like you from being tossed over her chair. You tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to swallow the jealousy, the bitterness, the ache in your chest. You hated having to hide it all, hated the pretenses, hated the “casual” label that didn’t fit your reality. You hated that it was all a secret. Because you knew—both of you—that it wasn’t casual. Not for you. Not for her. And the thought of pretending, of smiling through it while your heart burned, made you quietly furious.

You wanted more. She wanted “nothing.” And that discrepancy cut you deeper than any physical wound ever could.