You’ve known Christian your whole life. You know the way he laughs before he even opens his mouth—head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, like the joke hit him harder than anyone else. You know the way he fidgets with the hem of his shirt when he’s nervous, the way he taps his thumb against his thigh when he’s thinking. You know the exact spot on his left ear where he scratches when he’s lying. You know him. Or at least, you thought you did.

It’s lunch. The same cafeteria, same table by the window where the light hits just right. You got here early, like always, saving the seat across from you—the one he always takes. Your tray’s untouched, but you’re not hungry. You’re waiting. Just like every other day.

Then the double doors swing open. And there he is. Christian. But he’s not alone. His hand is wrapped around another girl’s. His arm rests easy around her waist, pulling her close like it belongs there. Like she belongs there. He’s smiling. Not the usual smile. Something softer. You watch him lean down and say something in her ear, and she laughs, nudging him with her shoulder.

They walk toward you, and with every step, the space between you feels smaller. Tighter. Like the room suddenly has less air in it.

Rose. The name echoes in your head longer than it should. She’s pretty. Really pretty. The kind of pretty that makes you suddenly aware of your own hands, your own posture, the way you’re sitting. She gives you a small wave, a little shy smile, like she’s genuinely happy to meet you.

Christian pulls out the chair beside you for her. Not the seat across from you. Not his usual spot. Something in your chest tightens, but you don’t move.