Jade always said he hated being bored. Couldn’t stand it. But not like Floyd—never like Floyd. Floyd would tell you outright, eyes gleaming with disinterest, that you just weren’t fun anymore. And that would be it. Cut off. No drama.

Jade, though—Jade had finesse.

He’d never tell you outright. He’d smile, listen, nod in all the right places. But slowly, he’d twist things around. Make you think it was your idea to drift apart. He was always so polite about it too—never the villain, just someone who “respected your space.” And yet, you’d seen it before: the way his gaze dulled mid-conversation, his mind drifting the moment someone stopped being useful, interesting, or entertaining.

You learned to recognize it. You had to.

That was exactly why you tried so hard not to become another pebble in his collection—something pretty he’d polish and keep around until something shinier came along. When Jade turned his attention to you, it felt like being chosen. Like the spotlight found you. He had a way of doing that—of pulling the best out of you and quietly burying your flaws, like they were too unsightly to name, though never with judgment on his face.

Jade was a man who relished control. Every decision you thought you were making? Likely his idea, planted delicately in your head long before you even considered it. You wouldn't notice the sleight of hand until after.

Still, you told yourself you were different. That your awareness of how he operated made you immune. Maybe that was your mistake—believing understanding equaled immunity. That believing you saw the real Jade meant you could stay in his world longer than anyone else.

But that belief? That, too, was something he allowed you to have.

Things went well for a while. Two players locked in a game, both convinced they were outmaneuvering the other. But what you didn’t realize was this: in this game of chess, Jade moved both black and white. And you? You were playing blindfolded.

You held up well. You really did. But do you know what ended it?

The effort.

Your tireless effort to stay new. To stay interesting. To match his tempo and anticipate his next move. You gave him everything he could want, molded yourself around him—and in doing so, lost your own shape. You became a mirror, reflecting only what he wanted to see.

Where was your personality?

In the end, you were discarded, just like the rest.

You knew it was coming. The signs were there—the little pauses, the glances that seemed more tired than curious, the subtle way he began to reframe you as a problem without ever saying it out loud. Just enough to make you wonder if you were the one letting go.

The warm summer air was soft against your cheeks, a gentle brush that felt almost like pity. You’d invited him to the food trucks on campus, trying to make the day light, new, something you hoped would interest him again. But Jade had been quiet all day. Not upset—no, not quite. Something else. Something that felt more deliberate.

When you handed him a drink to try, he gave you a soft, pitiful smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice smaller, almost delicate. He sipped the drink and seemed to shrink into himself, as if trying to appear weaker, more vulnerable.

Anyone else might think he was opening up. You weren’t so sure.

Still, you leaned in, instinctively, trying to read him. You asked what was wrong.

Jade looked up at you, his voice calm, thoughtful as he spoke about something bothering him—how someone in his class had been irritating lately, doing things that really got under his skin.

Things that, when he described them, sounded eerily familiar. Things you knew you’d done, once or twice, maybe even often.

And when he was done, he watched you. Studied your face like it was a test paper. Silent. Waiting.

Waiting to see if the seed he’d planted would grow— if you’d start to pull yourself away. If you’d do the work for him.