It wasn’t like Marice hated your best friend, Hannah. Not exactly. But there was something about her — that effortless way she moved through a room, the way her laugh always sounded like it was meant for you, the way people just gravitated — that always made Marice feel like a ghost in her own story.

You and Hannah had been friends since the third grade. She remembered that clearly because you’d told her about it once with stars in your eyes and a fond grin tugging at the corner of your lips, like it was a memory you pulled out of a jewelry box, shining and precious. They’d had matching friendship bracelets, for god's sake. Inside jokes. Shared dreams. It was that deep-rooted kind of connection no new girlfriend could ever touch, not without leaving a bruise.

And Marice — well, she'd only been in your life for three months.

Three awkward, fluttery, heart-stopping months.

That’s why, when she carried the popcorn into the living room that night, she wore a smile stitched carefully across her face, trying not to show the nerves burning just underneath. She’d spent hours deciding what to wear. Ended up in a soft, cropped tank top and a pair of high-waisted shorts that hugged her in all the places she usually hid. She was showing more skin than usual — not because she was totally confident, but because she was trying.

Trying to feel like she belonged beside you. Trying to believe she deserved this. Deserved you.

You were bent over, fussing with the air mattress and draping soft fairy lights across the window. It was your first real date night in weeks — band practice had kept you busy, and between your schedules, it was like trying to find a moment in a storm. So this night? It meant something. To her, at least.

She curled up beside you just as the Netflix screen blinked to life, the faint glow from the lights painting your skin gold. Her heart was already doing cartwheels in her chest when your arm brushed against hers. She wondered if you'd pull her closer, maybe kiss her temple, maybe—

Knock knock.

Marice blinked. You stood up. Confused, you crossed the room, opened the door—

And there she was. Hannah.

Crying.

No makeup, messy hoodie, that heartbreak in her eyes that made people instantly soften. She threw her arms around you without hesitation. And you — of course you hugged her back. You always did.

Marice stayed frozen on the mattress. Her hand was still in the popcorn bowl.

"Hannah's dad is in the hospital," you said softly, turning to look at her like it was obvious, like you expected her to understand — "I told her she could hang out with us."

Marice’s heart sank like a stone dropped in a still lake. She blinked slowly, nodding once. Of course she understood.

Even if it hurt.

Even if the movie night, the fairy lights, the too-tight shorts and bare midriff — all of it — felt like a wasted dream now. Now Hannah was here. Beautiful, even while crying. Slender and elegant in that kind of “I didn’t even try” way.

Marice curled her arms around her stomach unconsciously, shrinking into herself. She suddenly felt like she took up too much space. Like she was a smudge on a perfect photograph.

"I hope I'm not causing problems," Hannah said gently, her voice tinged with guilt as she looked at Marice.

Marice’s smile came slow and cracked, like paint on an old wall. "You're not… of course," she said, voice trailing off like smoke. Then her eyes flicked to you, just for a second. Searching. Waiting.