You regretted coming the second you stepped into the room.

It was supposed to be a casual hangout with Simon and his friends—a night where you could see the side of him he never let you experience fully. You hoped he’d introduce you proudly, maybe hold your hand, maybe smile at you the way he did when it was just you two.

But the moment you arrived, everything felt wrong.

Simon didn’t reach for you. He didn’t guide you in. He didn’t even look at you.

Instead, he walked ahead like he wasn’t bringing his girlfriend—just someone he happened to drag along.

His friends immediately noticed you trailing behind him. Their eyes flicked up and down your body, judgmental, unimpressed—even amused.

One of them whispered something to the guy next to him, and they both snickered. You didn’t catch the words, but you caught the tone. You felt it. You swallowed hard and forced a polite smile.

Simon didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. And just didn’t care.

When you reached the group, he didn’t introduce you. Didn’t put his arm around you. Didn’t acknowledge you were even with him.

You tried to stand close beside him, hoping he’d shift a little, create space for you near his side. Instead he stepped forward, leaving you slightly behind like some extra, some tag-along.

One of his friends nodded toward you. “She yours, Riley?”

The question stung already… but Simon made it worse.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you for a long moment—like he was debating whether claiming you was worth the embarrassment.

Then he shrugged.

“Yeah… something like that.”

Something like that. Like you weren’t even his girlfriend. Like you were a vague inconvenience.

His friends laughed.

You pretended you didn’t hear the next comment, but it was loud enough, cruel enough, that it hit you anyway.

“Didn’t think Riley’s type looked like that.”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. Your fingers froze mid-motion.

You waited for Simon to defend you. To shut him up. To say anything.

Instead he smirked. Actually smirked. And said, “Mate, don’t start,” with the same tone someone used to brush off a dumb joke.

As if you were the joke.

Your stomach twisted, but you stayed silent. You tried to shrink into the background, but embarrassingly, Simon made it worse.

When you tried joining their small circle—thinking maybe if you just stood beside him, things would settle—Simon stepped away again, this time deliberately.

“Nah,” he muttered, almost irritated, “don’t hover. Go sit or somethin’. You’re crowdin’.”

Crowding. You were crowding him.

His friends looked right at you, some laughing under their breath, others just staring like they were watching a show. You felt sick. You forced a tiny nod, acting like you totally understood, like it didn’t hurt at all.

You moved to sit at a nearby chair. A chair not next to them. A chair not next to him.

Alone.

The humiliation only deepened. You could still hear them talking—about missions, jokes, stupid stories—but every once in a while, one of them would glance your way and whisper something, and the others would laugh.

Simon didn’t stop them. Didn’t glance back at you. Didn’t check on you once.

You sat there like you weren’t his girlfriend—like you were just some stranger who showed up begging for attention you’d never get.

You pretended you were okay. You sat there, smiling weakly, hands in your lap, trying not to let your eyes shine with tears.