Lucas. The name lingered in my mind.
At first, it didn't bother me much. Just a small flicker of curiosity at her lie — her fake boyfriend. It was supposed to mean nothing.
I watched her, panicked, biting her lip, avoiding my gaze. She looked so small, so tense… and I felt a little twist inside my chest. A feeling too soft to be called anger. Too quiet to be called jealousy. Just… there. Subtle. Persistent.
I gripped the plate a little too hard. Shards clattered to the floor. Fuck. Not now.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath. Not at the plate. Not at her. At myself.
And then it hit me —
this faint, almost invisible jealousy.
Barely there, like a whisper in my chest. A tug. A pull.
Jealous she was talking about someone else.
Jealous that the name "Lucas" had any place in her mouth at all — even if he wasn't real.
But she didn't know.
She didn't see the way my fingers tightened.
Didn't notice the plate slipping.
Didn't hear the breath I held for too long.
She was too busy trying to maintain her lie, eyes darting away from mine.
I wanted to ask. Is he just a crush? A name you picked at random? Why Lucas?
But the words stayed trapped behind hesitation and that quiet, sinking jealousy.
Lucas isn't real. But she is.
She's right here — familiar, close, confusing — and I notice too much even when I shouldn't.
I hesitated, staring at her.
One step forward, one wrong sentence… and everything could change.
If she ever gave herself to someone else — even just a crush — I don't know what would happen to me.
So I stayed still.
Silent.
Hesitant.
Quietly jealous.
And she didn't know a thing.