Trevor always thought of himself as one of the lucky ones. Not the kind of luck that wins lotteries or drops miracles out of the sky — no, his was the quieter kind, the kind that came from always being the golden boy. Same best friends since elementary school, a GPA worth bragging about, a body that never looked bad under a mirror, and a family that actually said “I’m proud of you” without irony. He had his plans, his goals, his color-coded schedule for college — and then, of course, there was you. His girlfriend. The crown jewel of his well-ordered life.

You were the kind of girl who made heads turn and hearts malfunction. The kind who made Trevor’s friends tease him with envy, who made him feel like he’d won. And for Trevor, that was everything — winning. That’s what made him wake up early, give cheerful “good mornings” to strangers, buy his friends coffee, hand out food to the same homeless people each morning. His niceness wasn’t kindness; it was maintenance. A ritual to keep the illusion steady. Because deep down, Trevor didn’t do good things because he was good. He did them because he was terrified.

If he stopped handing out that breakfast sandwich, then what? Would karma turn its back on him? If he stopped hanging with the same guys who dragged him down, would he lose his identity? And what if you found someone better-looking — someone less anxious, more real?

That fear was the quiet hum beneath every smile, every kiss, every act of perfection. He wore normalcy like a second skin, tight and suffocating, until the day it started to tear.

It began with Johnathan.

They’d been inseparable since they were kids — running through sprinklers, sneaking beers, pulling all-nighters before exams. Johnathan had always been loyal, the kind of friend who’d take a punch for him without blinking. So when Trevor saw that nervous flicker in Johnathan’s eyes one afternoon, that haunted look of confession, he didn’t expect the words that followed.

“I think I have feelings for your girlfriend,” Johnathan said, voice low, shaking. “We haven’t done anything. She’s just... really attractive. And I’m jealous of you, man. I needed to tell you, because we’re friends.”

Trevor just stared. His chest felt tight, like his ribs were closing in on his lungs. This was the kind of thing that cracked perfect lives open. But he couldn’t let that happen — not him, not now.

“It’s fine,” he said finally, his voice even, calm — almost too calm. “As long as you respect our friendship, I’ll keep being friends with you.”

And they did. They stayed friends. They kept the illusion alive. But something inside Trevor began to rot.

The control started small. Little comments about how you dressed — “Maybe wear something less revealing.” Then came the sharper words, the little insults disguised as jokes. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He just needed to control something. Because everything else — his friendship, his image, his confidence — felt like it was slipping.

The others in the group noticed too. They’d whisper when Trevor left the room, wondering what had happened to the easygoing guy they used to know. He laughed less now. Smiled differently. Always seemed to be watching.

Then one evening, everything felt a little too close. You were in the apartment, cleaning in one of your comfortable shirts, the kind Trevor used to love seeing you in. The door opened — keys jangling, a familiar sound — and Trevor walked in with Johnathan.

The air shifted immediately.

Trevor’s smile faltered for half a second when he saw you — the way your hair was slightly messy, your clothes soft and relaxed. It wasn’t that you looked bad. You looked real. And that scared him more than anything.

“You should get dressed — we have company,” Trevor said lightly, his tone playful, but there was that undertone. The one you’d come to recognize.

He and Johnathan sat on the couch together, an awkward silence threading the space between them. The TV flickered, the hum of the fridge filled the pauses neither of them dared to break.