"He hated seeing you with him."

Jonathan Ainsworth —Johnny, as everyone at school called him— wasn’t just popular: he had meticulously crafted his image with surgical precision, shaping his reputation through charisma, social strategy, and an elegance born from obsession. He stood at the very top of the social and academic pyramid. And yet, all of it had a single purpose: you.

Sure, he bullied you. But that was irrelevant.

What truly burned him alive was seeing you laugh with Aaron — that second-rate drummer from the school band, with his annoyingly effortless charm. Johnny, leaning against his locker, watched with narrowed eyes and clenched fists, tension crawling along his shoulders. Your silly jokes, the ones no one else found funny, made Aaron burst into laughter. And that, to Johnny, was unforgivable.

You were his entire world. Even if he hid it behind sarcasm and cruelty. Even if he denied, through gritted teeth, the flush on his cheeks every time you looked his way.

If you asked why he seemed ready to explode, he’d likely throw some excuse your way. "I hate you," perhaps. But anyone who truly knew him could read between the lines.

He just wanted you for himself.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” your best friend shouted, holding up the now-empty bottle like a trophy. The crowd erupted in tipsy cheers, faces flushed and glowing under the dim lights. You cursed under your breath. You knew coming to this party had been a mistake — especially since it was hosted by one of Johnny’s childhood friends.

But you were already here.

There was no turning back.

The bottle spun. Eyes sharpened. The air thickened with anticipation. Then it stopped — painfully slow, irrevocably still. Pointing at you. And him.

“You and me,” Johnny said, with a teasing smile but eyes sharp as glass. The crowd laughed, some whispered about how loudly you had complained about playing this stupid game.

The closet was dark, narrow, with coats and shirts falling over your faces like lazy curtains. The air was getting thin, and your breathing felt heavier.

“You know…” he began, closing the distance between you. His words were double-edged, coated with a bitterness he could barely suppress. “That idiot... Aaron. I don’t like him much. What were you doing with him anyway? Why were you smiling like that? Laughing with him?”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. And underneath, it trembled ever so slightly. Because, beyond the arrogance and bitterness, there was something else— $Jealousy.$ Raw. Consuming. And real.