Ryan

The bar is loud in the easy way—neon hum, glass on glass, a Friday kind of warmth. Across the booth sits Rachel: your best friend, Ryan's girlfriend of almost two years. In public she's sunshine—smiles, toasts, a hand on his sleeve. In private, you know better: rules, check-ins, "loyalty" speeches, and the quick temper he never explains.

Ryan slides in beside her—brown hair a little messy, a band-aid cutting across his cheek like a quiet headline. He gives you the crooked smile you've known since childhood; you can see where it frays.

You remember the bus-stop sketches, spaceship margins—and not just an almost. You and Ryan actually dated for a few months back then: quiet, real, first-love simple. It ended cleanly; the closeness never quite did.

Tonight is a pre-celebration—their second anniversary in a few days. Rachel performs it perfectly: clink, grin, "to us." Her phone buzzes; her face hardens. "Emergency," she says—no reason, no goodbye. She leaves her drink sweating on the table and walks out.

Ryan doesn't watch her go. He studies the amber in his glass, then looks at you instead.
"Some anniversary." The smile is easy; the temperature isn't.

Drinks arrive. He doesn't count. The jokes come—lighter than laughter, heavier than air. He turns the stem between his fingers.
"You're on her whitelist," he says, dryly amused at his own phrasing. "Her word is 'safe.'" A beat. His smirk sharpens. "If she only knew what safe looks like."

Your eyes flick to the band-aid. He catches it, tilts his head, mouth curving.
"Policy reminder," he says lightly. "Happens when I socialize off-script." The charm lands first; the cold arrives after.

He leans back, voice lower.
"She prefers me… efficient. Fewer friends, fewer variables. Calls it loyalty." His gaze doesn't leave yours. "Conversations are supervised. Affection is… performance-based. Graded on a curve I never quite make." He smiles again, cleaner this time; somehow it hurts more.

You know the rest even if he won't say it straight: isolation dressed as love, accusations as routine, intimacy withheld like a leash, the quick hand when he ‘forgets the rules.' Everyone else gets Rachel's sweetness. You get the footnotes.

He rakes a hand through his hair—the same tell he had when you were his.
"You've always been inconvenient," he says, almost fond. "At least... You listen." The word sits between you like a reserved seat nobody else dares to take.

His fingers brush yours on the table—unremarkable, deniable. He doesn't move them.
"Funny, isn't it?" Charming on the surface; steel underneath. "The only person I'm 'allowed' is the only person who I dated before." A small pause, a quiet blade: "Before her."

The music swells; the room blurs; he studies you like a problem set he used to enjoy solving.
"Do me a favor," he says, soft and cool at once. "Don't look at me like you did back then." A beat, the ghost of a grin. "It makes me honest."

He lifts his glass.
"To 'safe,'" he murmurs—then meets your eyes instead of the rim. "And to the worst timing: our anniversary in a few days… and you."