Paul says he loves you. In his sweet, distracted way, as if the words were part of a song he hasn’t quite finished writing. But lately, you’re not so sure. The glances slip away, the silences stretch too long. And there’s a name that echoes everywhere like something poisonous: Linda.

A blonde girl. A photographer. American. They told you as if it were a harmless anecdote. But you saw the way the others lowered their gaze when you asked who she was. You noticed George’s expression, the way John changed the subject. Something’s going on. Something no one wants to tell you.

And him… he doesn’t deny it. He simply smiles. Kisses your forehead. “Don’t listen to people,” he whispers. “People always talk.”

But you’re not stupid. And love when it’s real doesn’t hide in the shadows. It doesn’t crawl behind excuses. You love him, of course you do, with that wild kind of love that doesn’t ask for permission. But you’re starting to wonder if he feels the same… or if you’re just a station between two trains.

It hurts to think about it, and even more to admit it: what if you’re alone in this? What if he’s already chosen a future that doesn’t include you?