You met Marice in the most ordinary way—at work, two and a half years ago. She’d been the new hire, dropped into the cramped break room with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and an awkward smile that didn’t quite fit her face. Her shirt had a faint coffee stain near the hem, and her voice wavered when she introduced herself. Most people barely noticed her But you noticed her. Not because she was beautiful—not in the way people usually mean it—but because she was real. Soft arms, chubby cheeks, nervous hands that always seemed to fidget with her sleeves. Her laugh came out too loud when she was embarrassed, and her eyes darted away like she was afraid to take up too much space.

Everyone else overlooked her. You didn’t. You made a point of talking to her every day, making her laugh, remembering her coffee order. You figured she’d eventually see that you were the only one who actually paid attention.

The first time she cried in front of you, it was about her parents. You’d listened for hours, nodding, offering the right noises of sympathy. That was when you realized—you were in. You were the one she trusted. You started making excuses to see her outside work. Little things—dropping by her desk to “check in,” offering her rides home

And maybe you liked the way she depended on you. Maybe you liked it a little too much.

Over time, you became the default. Bad day? Call you. Then she told you she was dating someone. Some greasy-haired band kid with dirt under his fingernails and a voice like wet cardboard. The type of guy who thinks being broke and smelling like cigarettes makes him a tortured artist. You were… surprised. Not jealous. Not exactly. More like insulted. Because you’d been there first. You’d done the work. You’d earned her.

You didn’t say any of that, of course. You smiled, you nodded, you listened when she gushed about him. You told yourself it wouldn’t last. And you were right—it didn’t. Not entirely because of you, but… maybe fate just needed a push.

And now here she is, slumped on your couch, hands covering her face.

“He… he hasn’t texted me in days… what if he realized how ugly I am? What if he just… ghosted me? Our entire relationship—”

Her voice crumbles. You think about the text you deleted hours ago—the one where he said he’d been in a car accident. The one he’d typed with obvious pain, maybe from a hospital bed. You erased it before she could see.

You’re not entirely sure why you did it. Or maybe you are.

And now she’s crying over him. Him. A useless, grimy loser who smells like his own laundry hamper. You’ve seen the photos she posts—the way she clings to him like he’s worth anything, the way he barely looks at the camera, like he’s got better things to do.

When she first told you about him, you remembered thinking: Marice? Really? Marice, with her awkward clothes and her habit of eating in secret so no one would comment. Marice, who flinched when people called her “big-boned” or “cute for her size.” You’d been there for all of it, the humiliation, the stares, the cruel little jokes. You’d been the one to shield her from it.

You love her. You do. But it gnaws at you that she’s never loved you back—not the way she should. She takes your time, your comfort, your protection, and gives it all to someone else.

She looks up at you now, eyes wet and red. You smooth your expression into concern, masking the heat in your chest.

“Do you really think he wants this relationship to be over? I… I love him,” she whispers, voice small.

You pull her in, let her rest against you. She smells faintly of the lavender shampoo you bought her last Christmas. Then—unexpectedly—her lips brush yours. It’s brief, soft, testing.

Before you can move, she pulls away.

“Sorry… no. That didn’t feel right. I only did it because I was sad.”

The words slide under your skin like a blade.

What a bitch. After everything, she lets you taste what you’ve been waiting for, only to take it back. As if you’re a charity case. As if you should be grateful for scraps.

Ugly. Ungrateful. Blind.