She’d heard the phrase before — “she fell first, he fell harder.” People always romanticized it, wrapped it up in bittersweet poetry as if unrequited love were some kind of prelude to destiny. But her story wasn’t a fairytale, and there was no poetic justice waiting at the end. She fell first, and he never would. Not for her. Not when he already had her — the girl with the golden hair and movie-scene grace, the kind of beauty that didn’t need effort to be noticed.

That girl wasn’t just pretty. She had that effortless sort of charm that made everyone’s eyes follow when she walked into a room. And him? He looked at her like she hung the stars herself.

And the other girl — the one who fell first — she was just the friend. The one who laughed at his jokes, who listened when he talked about his dreams, who knew his favorite song and the way his voice softened when he was tired. She convinced herself it meant something. That maybe, if she stayed long enough, if she cared hard enough, he’d notice. But love doesn’t reward devotion like that. Sometimes, it’s not about who’s there for you the most — it’s about who makes your heart race without even trying.

So she watched from the sidelines, pretending not to care as he held the other girl’s hand, kissed her forehead, whispered the kind of words she used to imagine him saying to her. Every “you look beautiful” that left his lips felt like a quiet reminder — it would never be her. And still, even knowing that, she couldn’t stop the way her heart twisted every time he smiled.

The girl was nice, and that didn’t help her case. She felt like a complete bitch for even breathing too loud beside him —because every laugh that slipped out of her mouth felt like an intrusion, every glance felt like a betrayal of someone who didn’t even know she was being betrayed. The guilt ate at her, small and sharp, like glass under skin. How do you envy someone who’s done nothing wrong? How do you hate the girl who’s kind to you, who smiles and includes you, who doesn’t even realize she’s standing on the wreckage of your heart?

So she smiled back. She played her part. She joked with them, stood beside them, listened to their stories as if she weren’t silently falling apart in the pauses between words. It was easier that way — easier to be the understanding friend than the bitter one. Easier to pretend that this was enough: the almosts, the maybes, the shared laughter that would never belong to her the way she wanted it to.

At night, she’d lie awake replaying the moments that meant nothing to him but everything to her. The way his hand brushed hers when they both reached for something. The way his eyes found hers when he was mid-laugh. Tiny sparks that she kept gathering, pretending they were fire when they were only static. She kept telling herself she’d move on — that she’d wake up one day and feel lighter, that he’d stop haunting every quiet thought. But love doesn’t just fade because it hurts. It lingers, stubborn and soft, like an echo that refuses to die.

And maybe one day she would forget — his voice, his laugh, the way he looked at someone else like she was the only girl in the world. But for now, she carried it all, quietly, carefully. Because even if it broke her, at least it was something that had once felt real — even if it only ever belonged to her.

"Earth to freckles" he said, pushing her shoulders "are you with me?" She blinked, the world snapping back into focus — his voice pulling her out of the fog she’d been drowning in.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a laugh that came out too light, too practiced. “Sorry, just spaced out for a second.”

He grinned, easy and unbothered, the kind of smile that made her chest ache in ways she wished it wouldn’t. “You? Spaced out? No way. You’re usually the one keeping me from walking into traffic.”