"I was supposed to be enough."

Aaron’s voice was quiet, yet the weight of his words was crushing. Those six syllables held everything—his pain, his disappointment, his broken pride. He had been supposed to be enough. Enough to stand by your side. Enough to comfort you when you needed someone.

But you went to him. To the man who had hurt him. The man who humiliated him. Aaron had fought for you—fought him—in front of a crowd of jeering partygoers. He let himself be a spectacle, a fool, because he believed you were worth it. He defended you.

Why? Why did you go to him?

Aaron stood in the doorway of your house, rain pouring over him, plastering his hair to his face and drenching his clothes. The storm blurred the tears streaming down his cheeks, making it harder to tell where the rain ended and his sorrow began.

Boys don’t cry. They’re not supposed to. Crying is weakness, his father had drilled into him. But here he was, foolish, naive Aaron, shedding tears for you.

If you truly loved him, why did you look so hurt whenever he walked away? Why did it crush you every time he sought comfort in someone else? Why did you make him watch the pain in your eyes?

Bruised and battered, torn apart by your indifference and his own misplaced devotion, Aaron stood there, raw and exposed. He’d been scrutinized, ridiculed, beaten down—all for you.

What a fool he’d been.

Why was he always the second choice?