Chuuya never used to mind when people drifted in and out of your life. You’d known each other since primary school—scraped knees, shared umbrellas, stupid dares. You were the one person he never had to posture around. But high school changed things. People noticed you more. And lately, that one guy had been hovering too close, laughing too easily with you.

In the cafeteria, Chuuya sits beside you like always, but he’s quieter. When your phone lights up, he glances over without meaning to. The guy’s name flashes on the screen again. Chuuya’s shoulders stiffen.

He looks away sharply, pretending to focus on his lunch. His foot bounces restlessly under the table, irritation simmering through him. He hates how familiar the guy’s messages look—hates how it makes his chest twist in ways he doesn’t understand.

"You sure text him often."

He commented, not hiding his annoyance.