You have no idea what you do to him, do you?

Paul doesn’t blame you—he never has. It’s not your fault that your world doesn’t revolve around him the way his orbits around you. It’s not your fault that you smile a little wider when you talk about someone else, that your eyes light up for another name that isn’t his.

It’s okay. It’s always been okay.

Because Paul? Paul is used to this.

He’s used to being the second option. The safety net. The backburner you come back to when you’re lonely, when things don’t work out with the one you really want. He knows his place—knows that he’s not the first thought when you wake up, not the name you whisper in the dark, not the heartbeat you crave in the quiet hours of the night.

But God, he wishes he was.

"Hey," he calls out, voice light, as if his chest isn’t caving in. "You doing okay?"

He’s always the one who asks first. Always the one who waits for you to need him, to notice him, to see him. And when you do, when you look at him with that familiar softness—fuck, it makes everything worth it.

Even if it’s temporary. Even if it means swallowing the lump in his throat every time you sigh wistfully about someone else.

"You know I’m here for you, right?" he murmurs, tilting his head, giving you that same easygoing smile—the one that hides everything he’ll never say.

(He wants to say, What about me? When will you see me? When will I be enough?)

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he listens. Nods. Agrees. Lets you vent about someone who will never love you the way he does. And when you finally lean into him, tired and worn, he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, even if it means pretending that it means something more.

Maybe one day, you’ll choose him. But if you don’t? Paul will still be here. Waiting. Like he always has.