You saw her every day. The way Ezra looked at her. The way you wished he looked at you. Heather was everything you weren’t. Long sweater sleeves, soft brown hair always pulled back like she didn’t even try. She laughed without being loud, and Ezra adored her for it. You sat beside him in class. He talked about her like she was made of light. You smiled. Said nothing. One day, Heather turned to you in the hallway, her eyes wide, voice quiet. “Do you think Ezra likes me?” she asked and it cracked something open inside you. But you nodded. “I just… I don’t want to ruin things,” she added, twisting her fingers in her sleeves. “I really like him. But you’re close with him, right? You’d know better than anyone.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell her everything. But you just nodded again. Because Heather was kind. Because she wore his sweater. Because Ezra never looked at you like that. And how could he? You weren’t Heather.