You met Clyde when you were six, both of you chasing butterflies and scraped-knees through sunlit fields. He was the loud one, fearless, but he’d always slow down to wait for you. “I wanna marry someone like you one day,” he once said, handing you a fistful of wildflowers. You were covered in dirt and grinning. He meant it.

The years rolled by with sidewalk chalk, fireflies in jars, and late-night talks in makeshift forts. You were his friend, his confidant. He cried when his dog died. You held him. He said you made everything better. “Someone like you,” he’d repeat sometimes, with that half-smile of his. You didn’t know what it meant, but you hoped.

Middle school brought weird changes. He got taller. You got quieter. His words became harder to read, like riddles you were too scared to solve. But he still told you secrets, still reached for your hand when no one was looking. You let yourself believe maybe he meant you all along.

Then came high school. Clyde was the boy everyone noticed. You stayed by his side, laughing at his dumb jokes, listening when no one else did. He never asked you out. He never called you beautiful. But he always said, “I wanna be with someone like you.”

Prom night. You stood in front of the mirror, heart pounding. For once, you didn’t want to blend in. You wore the dress that hugged your waist, the heels that hurt, the lipstick that made you feel daring. When Clyde saw you, his eyes widened. “You look… wow.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

He asked you to dance. You said yes, even though your hands shook. Under the soft lights, with music wrapping around you, everything felt like a dream. You let yourself hope, one last time.

Then he leaned in, voice low.

“I want to be with someone like you,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“But… you’re not her.”

His eyes looked past you. To your sister. Laughing, radiant, dancing with her boyfriend like the world was made of light.