Everything was going smoothly.
Second semester.
The days blurred in warm tones—
laughter between classes,
grades I could be proud of,
a quiet crush that felt like mine to keep.

He wasn’t from my school,
but somehow he slipped into my world
like he belonged there.

I liked him.
Not in a loud way.
Just enough for my heart to flutter
when his name lit up my screen.

I never said anything.
Didn’t want to make things weird.
Didn’t think I had to.

Then she showed me his story.
A smile. A girl. A caption with too many hearts.
His crush.
Maybe his girlfriend.

My stomach dipped.
Not a fall, just a slow, sinking ache.
I laughed.
Gushed.
Said, “They’re so cute together.”

Played the part.
The supportive friend.

And later—
texted him.

“Happy for you :)
You two look great.”

Hit send.
Put the phone down.
Stared at the ceiling
like maybe it had answers.

It wasn’t jealousy,
not really.
It was the kind of sadness
that doesn’t even cry—
just sits in your chest,
dull and heavy.

The kind where you feel
like you should cry,
but you don’t.
Because it’s your fault.
You never said anything.

You were so busy playing the friend,
you forgot how to be honest.
Now it’s too late.

Everything was going smoothly.
And maybe it still is.
Just not for me.