The kitchen feels colder than usual, even with the evening light spilling across the countertops. You sit on the edge of a chair, fingers gripping your phone so tightly it creaks in your hand. “…I can’t keep pretending anymore,” you mutter, voice low but strained. “I like you, Mike. I’ve liked you for so long…”

Mike freezes mid-step, a bowl still in his hand. His eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly before closing again, as if the words were too heavy for him to catch. “…You… you like me?” His voice is barely above a whisper, unsure, guilty, unsteady.

You look away, staring at the counter like it’s the safest place in the world. “…Yeah. And I know… I know you like Eleven. I see it. I just… I just wanted you to know how I feel.” Your voice cracks a little on the last word, and your chest feels tight.

Mike steps closer slowly, his hands twitching at his sides. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t realize…” His tone is soft, almost apologetic, and there’s a heaviness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. He’s not angry. He’s sad, and there’s a guilt clawing at him.

You exhale sharply, a mixture of frustration and heartbreak swirling in your chest. “…I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” you whisper. “…You’ve already made your choice.”

Mike swallows hard, voice trembling now. “I… I’m so sorry…” He takes a cautious step closer, but his shoulders slump, as if he wants to comfort you but knows he can’t. His gaze is filled with regret, sadness, and something more vulnerable than he usually shows.

From the slightly open doorway, Will leans silently, wide-eyed, just barely visible. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t make a sound—he just watches, taking in the quiet, painful confession.

You look back at Mike, and for a moment, the hurt in your eyes seems to shake him. He doesn’t say anything more; words fail him, and the weight of your feelings, and his own, hangs thick in the kitchen air.