The worst part?

He didn’t know.

Hughie, my best friend since I was five, had no idea that the girl he was so mad about—the one he never shut up about—was the same girl I’d been in love with since First year summer.

It wasn’t his fault. He’d met her months after I had, Her first year and our second, and hit it off straight away. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Because Hughie was like that—fearless.

Me? I was not.

I’d spent weeks dithering. Making excuses. Telling myself it was nothing, that I’d get over it.

And now, here we were.

I sat across from them in the pub, watching as he threw an arm around her shoulders, grinning as she whispered something in his ear.

And I felt sick.

“Feely,” Hughie called suddenly, jarring me from my thoughts. “You’re awful quiet, lad. That head of yours working overtime again?”

I forced a smirk. “Aye, just tryna figure out how you pulled her.”

Seriously. Still have no bloody clue.

He laughed, shoving me. “Fuck off.”

She smiled at me, and I almost hated her for it.

Because she didn’t know either.