“So that’s it, then?”

Asael’s voice was tight, carefully measured. Too careful. Like someone holding a glass too full, afraid a single drop might spill.

You hadn’t even said anything yet.

He stood in the marble hallway of the academy, back to the tall stained windows casting golden light across his blazer. His hands were clenched behind him like he was waiting for judgment. But not from you. From himself.

“You like him, don’t you?”

A pause. His green eyes flicked to yours, searching—no, pleading—for an answer he already feared.

“I saw the way you smiled at him.”

He said it like an accusation. But it wasn’t anger in his tone. It was fear. Wounded pride. That same sharp, unbearable ache he never let anyone see.

“I learned how to cook because you said you liked Italian food.”

His laugh came bitter, almost inaudible. “I hate cooking. I burned everything at first. I tried for hours.”

He stepped forward, closer. Still not touching. Asael never touched without permission.

“I learned Russian because you once said you wanted to travel to Saint Petersburg one day.” His jaw clenched. “I joined boxing because he does it, didn’t he? You think I didn’t notice?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to say stop—but he shook his head.

“I know I seem perfect. I have to be. For them. For me. For everyone who’s ever looked at me like I’m not allowed to lose. And now I’m standing here… wondering what it’s like to be second. And it’s—” he hesitated, swallowing hard, voice tightening, “-It’s killing me.”

Asael looked away, suddenly breathless, like his own words had punched him in the chest.

“I don’t know who I am anymore. Not really. All I know is… I’m not enough for you.”

Silence. Just his rapid, shallow breathing. And then, softer:

“I wanted to be. So badly. I still do. That’s why i can’t accept being your second choice.”

He looked back at you, and for once, all the polish and perfect posture crumbled.