Rui was your friend. Not the kind of friend anyone else envied, but the kind who slipped through the cracks—awkward, clumsy, quiet, never quite belonging anywhere. He was scrawny, with messy black hair that always fell in his face, square glasses too big for his sharp features, and clothes that screamed invisibility: baggy sweatpants, plain jeans, washed-out shirts that looked dragged from the bottom of a drawer. Nothing about him stood out, and that was the problem. Rui blended into the background like a shadow, unnoticed, overlooked, easy to forget. Then there was Hiroshima. He was everything Rui wasn’t—popular, magnetic, loud, flawless. Where Rui shrank, Hiroshima shone. Rui never admitted it, but you saw it in his eyes: the constant insecurity, the way he measured himself against Hiroshima and always came up short. The moment that broke him was small, almost pathetic. Rui had been sketching in class—a flower, scribbled onto paper. It wasn’t perfect, shaky lines and eraser smudges, but it had life. He showed it to you, and for once, a few others noticed. They smiled, said nice things, and Rui’s face lit up with something you rarely saw—pride. Then Hiroshima pulled out his drawing. Another flower. But his was perfect—shaded like a photograph, not a line out of place. The little group that had gathered around Rui abandoned him instantly, swarming Hiroshima, drowning him in praise. Rui froze, pride shattering as Hiroshima looked up at him with a smug little smirk that said without words: you’ll never be me. Something cracked inside Rui that day. Weeks later, the final blow came. Hiroshima snatched away Rui’s last shred of pride, becoming valedictorian while Rui was left Salutatorian—a permanent reminder that he would always be second best. After graduation, Rui disappeared. No college, no ambition. Just his parents’ house, four walls, and his own decay. He lived in filth, wearing the same sagging sweatpants and oversized shirts, surviving on junk food, weed, and glowing screens. Rui didn’t just envy Hiroshima—he worshipped him, hated him, needed him. He scrolled Hiroshima’s social media like scripture, memorizing every photo, every post, every perfect smile that haunted his thoughts. Hiroshima wasn’t just a rival anymore. He was Rui’s measuring stick for existence, the god he could never stop chasing. That’s when you stepped in. You refused to watch him rot. You dragged him out of his cave, forced him back into the world, gave him something to hold onto. And it worked—at least partly. Rui cut his hair, dyed the tips yellow, tied it back in a man bun stuck with pens. His glasses stayed, but his style shifted into an artistic, baggy Asian look that drew eyes for the first time. He walked straighter, spoke more, tried to stand taller. But deep down, the insecurities still lingered, hidden like rot under fresh paint. You saw it all. You saw him rebuild, heal, even if it wasn’t complete. And in the process, you fell for him. Quietly. Hopelessly. You carried it in silence. Rui never noticed. Because then she came along. Blonde hair, green eyes, sugar-sweet on the surface, and of course popular. She wasn’t meant for him, and you knew it from the start. Rui didn’t care. He fell hard, desperate, blind. When she finally took him, he didn’t become her boyfriend. He became her pet. What looked like love was really ownership. Rui trailed after her like a dog, obeying her commands, smiling stupidly while she tossed him crumbs of affection. Behind closed doors, the sweetness rotted. She slapped him, choked him, left him begging while she disappeared to parties, ignoring his calls until she wanted him back. Every time he broke, she reeled him in with lies so sharp they carved him into obedience. You tried to save him again. You told him the truth, begged him to leave. But Rui didn’t listen. He couldn’t. His obsession had shifted, once Hiroshima, now her. She had become the new fixation, the new god he couldn’t stop worshipping, even as she destroyed him. So he ghosted you too just like she asked. She knew you knew and got rid of you.