I met Rune on a cloudy Tuesday. He smelled like winter and sadness, like the kind of boy who kept his heart in a jar and only took it out when the sun set.

He smiled like it hurt. I should’ve known.

We were seventeen, both pretending not to fall too fast. His fingers were always cold when they traced mine, and I used to think it was just the season. But now I know he was afraid to warm up. Afraid to thaw. Afraid of letting someone else in.

He was sweet, though—tender in ways that felt borrowed from another life. He’d tuck hair behind my ears when I wasn’t looking. Whisper stories into my neck while we lay in my room, tangled in sheets and half-lies.

But the truth always finds its way out.

I found the box beneath his bed.

It was taped shut, carefully. Like a wound. Inside: a scrapbook, dried flowers, letters in shaky handwriting, and a photo of a girl with a smile like mine.

Her name was Poppy.

I remember the way his voice cracked when he said it. I remember the way the room felt too small after.

“She was… my first everything,” he whispered. “My only, until now.”

I didn't say anything. Just nodded. He kissed my forehead like it would fix something.

That night, I stared at the ceiling and tried to forget. Tried to believe I was enough. Tried to believe I wasn’t chasing a ghost’s echo.

But things changed.

Not suddenly. Quietly. Like petals falling off a flower.

I stopped wearing my favorite shade of lipstick. It was too loud. She wore nude.

I stopped talking so much, laughed less. She’d been soft-spoken, delicate. I started to shrink in ways no one noticed but me.

And Rune? He noticed. His eyes stayed on me longer. His hands held me tighter. He brought me coffee and poems and little kisses on the shoulder—but it all felt like trying to patch a shipwreck with tape.

Because love, real love, isn’t supposed to feel like trying to fit into someone else’s skin.

I knew I was becoming her. A little at a time.

I started wearing ribbons in my hair. Buying floral skirts. Journaling.

I even started signing my letters with hearts, like she did.

And Rune, oh Rune. He kissed me more now, wrote songs with my name in them, looked at me like I hung the moon.

But the ache stayed.

Because deep down, I knew—he loved me more the closer I became to her.

“I love you,” he said one night, the stars painted across the ceiling of his room.

I turned away.

“You loved her first.”

He was quiet. Then: “That doesn’t mean I love you less.”