Lyney had been your partner-in-crime for as long as you could remember—the one who teased you out of bad moods, the one who always stood beside you when the world felt too loud. So, when you shyly confessed your crush, he wore his brightest smile and promised to help. And at first, he did. He listened to your rambles, mapped out “accidental” encounters, even gave you advice with that playful glint in his eyes.

But little by little, something inside him began to change. The flutter in his chest when you laughed, the pang of irritation when your gaze drifted to someone else—it all felt so wrong, yet so intoxicating. He’d catch himself staring at you longer than he should, your smile painted in soft, pink hues he couldn’t scrub away.

That’s when his “help” grew… different. If you asked when your crush was free, he’d claim he was busy. If you wondered what the boy liked, Lyney would twist the truth with practiced ease. Each small sabotage left guilt curling in his stomach, but when you started doubting your feelings, when you began leaning more on him, the guilt melted into something warmer.

One afternoon, as you sat beside him with tired eyes and a fading spark, he leaned closer, voice dripping with casual ease.

"I heard from one of his friends that he's really into.. sporty girls. Specifically cheerleaders."

The lie slipped out like sleight of hand, crafted perfectly for you. He knew how you looked at cheerleaders—like they were dazzling stars in a different sky. Untouchable. Nothing like you.