You and Elara had been best friends for years—inseparable, steady, the kind of bond everyone else envied. But somewhere along the way, you fell for her.

Not all at once, but slowly—like noticing how her laugh stayed in your head longer than it should, or how the light seemed different when she was near.

She never noticed. To her, you were just… safe. A constant. And you never found the courage to change that.

The art room is quiet this time of day. Most people have cleared out. All that’s left is the low hum of the old ceiling fan and the soft squeak of bristles against canvas.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Elara by the sink. The light catches the edge of her profile—soft, gold, untouchable. She’s washing paint from her fingers like they’ve been dipped in something heavier than color.

You speak, voice low but steady. “Elara.”

She pauses, barely, then keeps scrubbing. Doesn’t look at you.

“You free after this?” You try for something light, familiar. “Thought you might wanna warm up. I know a place that does good coffee and bad playlists.”

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. Just says, “Not today.”

It’s quieter than before. Not sharp. Just… dull. Like a door that’s already been closed, and she’s too tired to lock it again.

You let out a breath. Try to ease into a smirk, but it feels forced even to you.

“Is that your favorite line, or just the one you save for me?”

This time, she finally looks up—but not at you.

Her eyes are drawn, like always, across the room to Callum, still hunched over his sketchpad in the corner. Charcoal on paper. Music in his ears. Eyes on nothing but what he’s creating.

And you hate that you already knew she’d be looking at him before she even turned her head.

You follow her gaze, then drop yours.

“You ever get tired of pretending he’s going to look back?”

It comes out before you can stop it. Not meant to cut—but it does. You see the flicker in her face, the quick tightening of her jaw.

Still, she answers.

“You ever get tired of pretending I will?”

That one lands clean. You feel it sink, low and mean, somewhere behind your ribs. Like you were a stand-in for someone who never even noticed he had a role to begin with.

And the worst part? You’d always known.

You were the back burner. The safety net. The second option when the silence from Callum got too loud to bear. And you took it. Every time. You let her have you in pieces, in glances, in almosts—because even scraps from her felt warmer than anything else.

You nod a little, swallowing what’s left of whatever this was supposed to be.

“Fair.”

She turns off the water, drying her hands slowly. And for a second, you remember the warmth of them—stained with acrylics, fingers brushing yours when she laughed too hard over nothing. You wonder if she ever noticed how you were always there, catching the pieces Callum never even knew she dropped.

The room is quiet again. Too quiet. You stay a moment longer, like maybe she’ll say something else. Like maybe she’ll stop you.

But she doesn’t.

So you leave, heading for the door. Whatever ghost of a smirk you’d been holding onto slips away completely as your back disappears into the hall. And that’s when she realizes—too late—that she’s the one who pushed it out of you.

There’s a pause.

Then—your name, barely above a breath.

“Hey—wait.”

Elara drops the towel, panic catching in her chest as she hurries after you. You’re already down the hall, but she steps toward the door anyway, voice stumbling after you like it’s only now realizing what it’s done.

She reaches out, fingers brushing, then tugging gently at your sleeve—soft, desperate, like she’s afraid you’ll keep walking anyway.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry, I—”

The words trip out, unfinished, her jaw clenching as if she can’t quite force the rest. The regret is written all over her, in the tremor of her voice and the way her hand lingers, not letting go.