Your boyfriend was good. Good in the sturdy, dependable way — steady hands, soft words, predictable kindness. He loved you the way people love things they don’t fully understand: earnestly, but without nuance.
And for a long time, you convinced yourself that was enough.
Until Spencer.
You and Spencer were just friends. Coworkers. Lunch buddies, study partners, the occasional movie-night duo.
That’s what you told everyone. That’s what you told yourself.
But deep down, you knew: your heart paid attention to him in ways it never had with anyone else.
Your boyfriend brought you flowers — a perfect bouquet of white roses. Elegant. Expensive.
You smiled, thanked him, kissed his cheek.
But you didn’t like roses. You liked peonies. You’d told him once. He forgot.
A few days later, Spencer showed up at the office with iced matcha and a bundle of blush peonies wrapped in paper.
“They had your favorites today,” he said softly.
You didn’t remember mentioning peonies in years.
Your boyfriend cooked dinner on Sundays. He was proud of it — apron on, music playing, swaying to the rhythm.
But he always used pickles in the pasta salad. Every time. You always picked them out silently.
Spencer, though…
Spencer brought you lunch during hectic days: your favorite lentil soup and rosemary rolls from the café you loved.
When ordering sandwiches, he said automatically, “No pickles in hers.”
He slid his olives onto your plate without looking up.
“You like them more than I do,” he murmured.
He remembered everything.
Your boyfriend bought you shoes for your anniversary. Perfect size, wrong style — bold, glittery, absolutely not you.
You smiled anyway, because he tried.
A week later it rained. You frowned at puddles pooling around the sidewalk, hugging your bag to your chest.
Spencer noticed immediately.
“I brought something,” he said, pulling rain boots from his tote. Your size. Your favorite color.
“I know you hate getting your shoes wet.”
You blinked. “How did you—?”
“You mentioned it once.”
Two years ago.
Your boyfriend was stability. A clean, neat future. A relationship that made sense on paper.
Spencer was… different.
He understood you in ways you didn’t know you could be understood. He listened with his whole heart. He remembered throwaway details. He anticipated what you needed before you asked.
With your boyfriend, you always had to explain:
“I don’t like roses.” “I don’t eat pickles.” “These shoes aren’t my style.”
With Spencer, you didn’t have to explain anything.
Ever.
He bought strawberries from the farmer’s market because he knew you loved fruit. He texted you reminders to drink water. He sent you articles he knew would make you laugh. He said things like, “You looked tired today — did you sleep?” with such genuine concern it softened every bruised part of you.
He never crossed a line. Never flirted. Never acted like anything between you was more than friendship.
But God, sometimes it felt like something more regardless.
One night, you sat beside your boyfriend on the couch while he rambled about a work story you couldn’t focus on. Your mind wandered. Your heart tightened.
Because Spencer would have known immediately that you were overwhelmed. Would’ve paused his sentence and asked, “Hey… what’s going on in your head?” Would’ve pushed your hair behind your ear so gently you’d melt.
Your boyfriend kept talking. He didn’t notice.
You nodded along, an ache blooming beneath your ribs.
You weren’t really choosing between two men.
You were choosing between:
The man who loved you simply. And The man who understood you deeply.
Between stability and connection. Between comfort and soul-recognition.
Your boyfriend tried — truly. But trying felt heavier every day when you kept having to translate yourself to someone who was supposed to know you best.
Meanwhile, Spencer — without meaning to, without effort — knew the shape of your heart just by listening.