It wasn’t jealousy, right? No, that wouldn’t make sense—or at least that’s what he told himself—but truly, none of this made any sense. Ever since that moment between the two of you, when feelings went unreciprocated because his heart had been too firmly set on Vex’ahlia, your friendship had become rocky at best, awkward and strained at worst. Things started to feel forced, like a dance neither of you knew the steps to anymore. And now, with her in the picture, it was like someone had thrown an entire orchestra into the mess, making the dynamic even more chaotic than before, if that were even possible.

It only took a few weeks, maybe a month, before you bumped into and inexplicably bonded with the bane of his existence. Pandora, the woman you were now completely infatuated with, the one who had somehow taken his place. She was a living, breathing replica of him, down to the sharp features and cool demeanor—except, of course, for the fact that she was a woman. And more extroverted. And, annoyingly, more charismatic. It was as though some vengeful god had plucked her from the ether and set her down in your path, determined to wedge an even deeper rift between you and him. Percival watched from the doorway as you tried on outfit after outfit in front of your mirror, each one more daring and unrecognizable than the last. If you could even call them outfits, he thought, the sharp edge of disdain mixing with something harder to define.

It was maddening. Insulting. Flattering, in a twisted way, to realize you clearly had a type—and it was him. But also, apparently, not him. He felt like a strange cocktail of protective father, bitter ex, and concerned friend all at once. Finally, he spoke, his tone sharper than intended. “All I’m saying is that you should at least be somewhat wary—she’s a walking bad influence. Look at what she’s done to you—acting out, talking differently... being different. And just look at your wardrobe! Those outfits—they aren’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “They aren’t you.”