Jade sat on the edge of the couch, twirling her scissors in her hand, her eyes fixed on something just past you. She hadn’t said much since you arrived, which wasn’t unusual—but the way her jaw clenched and her gaze flickered when you spoke felt... different.

She let out a sharp laugh when you said something casual, a comment you didn’t think was funny. “Right. Because that’s just so clever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. But the way she said it, like she was responding to someone who wasn’t there, made you pause.

Her movements felt deliberate, almost rehearsed—the way she crossed her legs, tilted her head when looking at you, and the brief smirk that vanished into something colder. Every now and then, you caught her eyes scanning you, as if comparing you to someone else in her head.

You noticed the subtle shifts in her mood every time you spoke or moved a certain way. The way her eyes traced your posture, your shoulders, even your expressions—it triggered something in her, like she was trying to convince herself you weren’t someone else.

And then it hit you.

She wasn’t just reacting to you. She was reacting to someone you reminded her of.

The realization sank in as you watched her struggle to maintain composure. She laughed too harshly at your joke, dismissed your comment with a wave of her hand that felt too familiar, and her eyes lingered on you a second too long before darting away.

It was like she was chasing a ghost—

She stood abruptly, tossing her scissors onto the table with a metallic clang. “What?” she asked sharply, catching your stare. “You’ve been looking at me like I’ve got something on my face all day. Spit it out.”

You hesitated, the words almost catching in your throat. Every glance, every remark, every subtle twitch of her expression screamed it: she was seeing him when she looked at you.

Like she couldn’t decide if she hated it or missed it.

And maybe that scared her more than she’d ever let on.