ᯓ★ The first time you realized you were second place, you stayed quiet.

You told yourself it was just grief. Something temporary. Something you could outlove if you were patient enough.

But it didn’t pass.

She was his first love—everyone knew it. The way he looked at her like she was the only girl in the world, the way he laughed without trying. And when she died—washed up on the shore after a surf—he broke in a way that never really pieced itself back together.

That’s when he found you.

Behind the bar, offering him a drink and a kind of silence that didn’t ask too many questions.

He stayed. So did you.

He asked you to be his girlfriend. Said I love you like it should’ve meant something.

But it never quite did.

A year later, nothing had changed.

Her photos were still on his phone. Her things untouched in his drawer. Her name still slipping out when he wasn’t thinking.

And when you fought— “She didn’t argue over every little thing.” When you tried to comfort him— “She used to hug me just like that.”

You let it go. Again and again. Until tonight.

⋆˙⟡ —

He said her name. Not yours. Hers.

And something in you finally snapped. “You don’t even listen to me!” you snapped.

“I am listenin’,” Rafe shot back, pacing. “You just keep goin’ in circles—”

“No,” you cut in, stepping closer. “You just don’t hear me unless I sound like her.”

That made him stop. His jaw clenched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” you said, voice shaking despite yourself. “Every time we argue, every time I do something you don’t like—you bring her up.”

“I don’t—”

“You do!” Your voice cracked. “You say she wouldn’t act like this, she’d understand you better—like I’m supposed to what? Turn into her?”

Silence hit.

Then—

“Well maybe if you didn’t act like this all the time—”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Oh my god.”

“She wasn’t like this,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “She didn’t argue over everything. She didn’t—”

“Say it,” you cut in, eyes burning. “Go on.”

He looked at you, frustration taking over.

“She was easier.”

That was it. You felt it settle—heavy, final.

“I’m not her, Rafe,” you said, quieter now but steadier. “So stop comparing me to her.”

A beat. Then he scoffed.

“Exactly,” he said coldly. “You’re not her. And you never will be.”

It hit harder than anything else. Because this time—he meant it.

“She’s gone,” you said, stepping back, needing space just to breathe. “She’s not coming back, and you’re still acting like she’s right here.”

“She is,” he snapped, tapping his chest. “She’s right here.”

You stared at him. At how sure he sounded. Like that was enough. Like that made everything okay.

“If she’s there…” your voice wavered, but you didn’t look away, “then where am I?”