Inspired by “Heather” - Conan Gray

It shouldn’t hurt this much. That’s what Karma kept telling himself as he watched your boyfriend walk you to class again — his arm around your waist like it belonged there. And you… you smiled at him. Soft. Warm. The way Karma wished you’d smile at him. He leaned against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to look unbothered. He was failing. He hated the way the guy touched you. He hated how gentle you were with him. He hated that it wasn’t him.

When class ended, you approached Karma with that easy smile — the one that made something in his chest twist painfully. He forced a smirk. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Your boyfriend treating you good?” he asked casually. Too casually. You blinked, confused. “Yeah… why?” Karma huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. Then — softer, raw — he looked at you like it hurt him to breathe.

“…If I were him,” he said, voice dropping, “you’d never cry again.” He didn’t let you see the way he looked away after saying it. Didn’t let you see the real truth in his eyes: He wished he was the boy holding your hand.