You never really understood why Felix called you sunshine.

The nickname didn’t suit you—not really. You weren’t the type to bounce into rooms with loud laughter, or cling to people until they melted in your warmth. You weren’t even talkative; silence came easier than words most days. And yet, ever since the two of you had grown close, the name had stuck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he’d say with that soft smile, voice dipping low the way it always did when he was trying to make something sound like it belonged only to you. You’d smile back, because what else could you do? But in the back of your mind, the name felt…misplaced.

It wasn’t until a stray conversation with one of his old friends that the pieces clicked into place. He used to call someone else sunshine. Someone before you.

And suddenly, every time the word slipped from his lips, it didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a shadow.

You started noticing the little cracks after that. The way his expression softened when he said it—not toward you, but toward the memory of whoever had come before. Sometimes he’d say it too quickly, almost reflexively, and you’d wonder if he was really looking at you at all.

You tried not to care. Felix was still here, wasn’t he? He still chose you, sat beside you, laughed with you, lingered in your space like he belonged there. But every time sunshine slipped past his lips, it pressed into your ribs like a bruise.

One night, it snapped.

The two of you were sitting on your couch, his head tilted against the cushion, your phone glowing in your hands. He glanced up, smile lazy, and murmured, “What are you doing, sunshine?”

You froze. Something in you twisted, sharp and painful, and before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. “Why do you call me that?”

Felix blinked. “Call you what?”

“Sunshine.” Your throat felt tight. “You always say it, and I don’t get it. I’m not…that. I’m not bright, or warm, or—whatever you’re trying to make me. So why?”

He sat up straighter, frown pulling at his features. “Because that’s what you are to me.”

“To you?” The laugh that left you was hollow. “Or to whoever you used to call that?”

The silence after that was deafening.