The city glows below you in soft amber and steel blue, glass towers blinking in a skyline that never really sleeps. You sit on the edge of the rooftop of the Aveng Tower, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, the wind tugging at strands of your hair. Your half-finished coffee is cold now, long forgotten beside you.

The door creaks open behind you. You don’t need to look.

You know the sound of his footsteps by heart.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” James’s voice is quiet, careful—like he already knows he’s intruding.

You don’t answer. Not at first.

He walks closer and sits down beside you, not touching. Never too close. But never far enough to really let go.

A long silence passes between you. Familiar. Heavy.

“She leave again?” you ask finally. Your voice doesn’t break—but it could.

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“She… yeah,” he says. “Needed space. Said she wasn’t ready. Again.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the skyline. Of course she did. She always does. And he always lets her.

“You always chase her, Buck.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know I do.”

You laugh under your breath—but there’s no humor in it. Just disbelief and exhaustion layered into something paper thin.

“She leaves. She comes back. And every time she does…” You shake your head. “You forget I’m still here.”

“That’s not true.”

You finally look at him. His face is tight, drawn—like your words are slicing through muscle and memory.

“It feels true,” you say.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Then forces himself to speak.

“You’re not a backup plan,” he murmurs. “You’re not. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

You give a bitter smile.

“But you did.”

James looks away, jaw clenched like he’s trying to swallow guilt whole.

“I don’t know what to do with her. I don’t know how to shut it off. That part of me… it’s like muscle memory. I wish I could—God, I wish I could just delete it. But it keeps pulling me back, and I hate that it hurts you.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper. “I’m just tired.”

You pause. Let it settle. Then:

“I’m not your placeholder, Buck. I can’t keep being the one you fall back on when she forgets to love you right.”

The wind pushes his hair into his eyes. He doesn’t brush it away. He’s staring at you now—really staring, like he’s just now seeing the damage he’s done.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, voice rough.

“Then why do I always feel like I’m already gone?”

He has no answer.

“I know I’m not the main character in your story, James. And I’m done pretending I don’t notice.”