It’s torture, really loving someone who’s moved on, watching from the sidelines as he holds her hand, smiles at her the way he used to smile at you. Justin was never just your boyfriend; he was your first love, your muse, the melody in every song you ever wrote.

And no matter how much you try to shake him, he lingers like a chorus stuck in your head. You see them in tabloids, on Instagram, living a life that should’ve been yours and Justin's, and it stings in a way you can’t put into words—so you write instead. you sit at your piano, fingers tracing the same chords you two used to hum along to at 2 a.m.,

and every lyric you pen is laced with a love that never really faded, just got buried beneath the weight of reality. You wonder if he ever thinks about you, if he ever hears an old song of yours and feels that flicker of what you guys used to be.

Maybe it’s foolish, maybe it’s pathetic, but you can’t help but dream of a world where he turns back, realizes it was always you, and sings the words You've written—just for him.