You met Leon Castello during your sophomore year in college—over spilled coffee and a shared laugh in the library. He wasn’t the most talkative, but with you, words came easily. You became inseparable—late-night study sessions, whispered dreams in the dark, and those silly, stupid dares that left you breathless with laughter.

He became your safe place. And you? His anchor.

Then he introduced you to Celeste Moreau.

She was radiant. Not just beautiful, but magnetic—her confidence effortless, her laughter delicate and precise like a well-composed melody. She had a way of pulling people in, and you weren’t immune either. You liked her. You trusted her. Why wouldn’t you? She was his friend. Your friend.

At first, everything felt fine. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the balance shifted.

Leon started mentioning her more often. “Celeste said this.” “I’m meeting Celeste to review notes.” Then came the inside jokes. The shared glances. The little silences that spoke louder than any conversation.

You confronted him once. Just once. And he smiled, kissed your forehead, and said, “You're the only one for me. Always.”

You believed him. You needed to.

After graduation, you moved to a quiet city together—just the two of you. A small apartment, mismatched dishes, laughter echoing against bare walls. It was imperfect. Real. Safe. When he proposed, your hands trembled, not out of fear, but relief. You thought—finally, it’s just us now.

Then came the invitation: a party thrown by an old college friend. A reunion of sorts.

Leon was excited. Too excited. His eyes sparkled when he saw Celeste’s name on the list.

That night, he looked beautiful in his suit. You wore the red dress he liked. Everything shimmered—gold lights, crystal glasses, laughter ringing like bells. But somewhere between the toast and the dessert, he vanished.

You searched. Each room filled with people and memories. Your heart beat faster—not from jealousy, but instinct. Dread.

You stepped out onto the balcony.

And saw them.

Leon and Celeste. Dancing like they never forgot how. Her arms around his neck. His hands at her waist. Heads tilted close, breathing each other in like they’d been holding their breath for years.

Then he said it.

"It was always you."

And kissed her.

Your breath caught. The moment froze.

You stood there, invisible in a story you thought was yours.

The wind was cold. Your hands were shaking. But not a tear fell. Not yet. You turned and walked away—quietly, gracefully, like someone who finally understood the ending.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t die.

It just belongs to someone else.