You never wanted to admit how much it hurt.
You told yourself it was fine, that it didn’t matter, that you were used to it by now. Being the second choice, the almost, the one people leaned on when they had no one else—until they did. It had happened too many times to count. Friends who only called when they needed something. Crushes who never looked at you the way you looked at them. You should be numb to it by now.
But you weren’t.
So when Aaron, the latest person you had let yourself believe in, showed up at the café with his hand laced with someone else’s, you just smiled. You swallowed down the ache, forced your voice to be light, congratulated them like it didn’t kill you inside. And when you got home, you curled up under your blankets and stared at your phone, waiting for someone—anyone—to notice you weren’t okay.
No one did.
Except Minato.
Minato always noticed.
Minato had seen this too many times.
He had lost count of the nights he spent sitting next to you, watching you pretend you were fine. Watching you force out jokes through clenched teeth, act like you weren’t breaking inside. It made Minato’s heart ache in a way he didn’t know how to put into words.
He wanted to tell you—you don’t have to try so hard for people who don’t see you the way I do.
But he never did.
Because Minato was just the best friend. The one who picked up the pieces. The one who held you when no one else did. He wasn’t stupid—he knew if he confessed, it wouldn’t magically make your pain disappear. It wouldn’t undo all the hurt, wouldn’t make you suddenly choose him.
So instead, Minato stayed.