The music was loud—cheap beer louder. You hadn’t planned on showing up to the party, but Rafe had texted, “Come thru. Missed you.” So you came, pretending it didn’t mean more than it should.

You walked through the house, lights dim and air thick, searching for him. You didn’t want to seem desperate—just curious. Just casual.

You spotted him before he saw you, leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing with a few of his friends. One had a joint between his fingers. The other passed him a Solo cup. Rafe looked like he always did—loose and wild, like the world owed him nothing and he liked it that way.

You were about to walk over when you heard your name.

“Wait—so are you actually with her?” one of the guys asked, smirking.

Rafe shrugged. “Nah. She’s just this girl I hook up with sometimes. It’s not that deep.”

You froze.

“She’s cool and all,” he added, casual as ever, “but I get bored easy. She’s just… something to do.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Maybe because last night, he kissed you like he meant it. Maybe because last week, he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling things you weren’t supposed to hear. Maybe because you believed him when he said, “I don’t let people in. But you? You’re different.”

You turned around before he could see you, the floor suddenly unsteady. Your chest was tight, your throat tighter. You pushed past bodies and laughter, the bass of the music echoing the words in your head.

She’s just something to do.

Outside, the air was cold. You didn’t cry—not yet. But you felt that slow, sinking kind of sadness. The kind that sits behind your ribs and stays there.

You weren’t just a girl. Not to you.

But to him? You were never anything more than casual.