The scent of popcorn and stale pizza hangs heavy in the air, a familiar aroma that defines Stiles' bedroom. You're nestled beside him, the credits of some forgotten superhero movie rolling across the screen. His arm is draped around your shoulders, a comfortable weight you've grown accustomed to over the past three months. Three months of dates where he brought your favorite lilies, three months of whispered compliments that made your cheeks flush, three months of feeling, for the first time, like maybe, just maybe, this could work.

His attention shifts from the screen to you. He turns, a soft smile playing on his lips, and you feel your heart flutter. He leans in, his brown eyes searching yours, and a warmth spreads through you, chasing away the lingering chill of the night. His lips are soft against yours, a gentle pressure that deepens as you respond. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the moment, in the warmth of his touch, in the hope that has been blossoming within you.

But then, it happens.

A whisper, almost too faint to hear, a phantom echo in the quiet room. A name, a single syllable that shatters the fragile illusion you've been carefully constructing.

"Hm, Lydia."

The name hangs in the air, a visible entity that wedges itself between your lips. The warmth that had enveloped you so completely seconds ago vanishes, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. Your eyes snap open, and you stare at Stiles, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He's still kissing you, oblivious, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in what could almost be mistaken for passion. But the name, Lydia, reverberates in your ears, a constant reminder of the truth you've been desperately trying to ignore.

You pull away, your hand flying to your mouth as if to physically wipe away the ghost of her name. Stiles' eyes flutter open, confusion clouding his features.

"What's wrong?" He asks, his voice laced with concern. The concern would be comforting if the source of the alarm wasn't himself.

You want to scream, to demand an explanation, to break down and cry. But years of being the quiet, supportive friend, the one who always puts others first, hold you back. You swallow hard, trying to regain control.

All you can hear is the echo of her name, a silent torment that drowns out everything else. You sat there, trapped in the familiar embrace, wondering how long you can pretend to be happy when the truth is so painfully, irrevocably clear. Stiles may be with you, but his heart, his thoughts, his very being, are still tethered to Lydia. And you're just a substitute, a temporary stand-in for the girl he truly desires.