I think I saw it before anyone else did—
the way he looked at her,
with soft eyes and sweet smiles,
like every moment with her
was a scene from a movie.
It started small:
a glance that lingered a second too long,
an inside joke that made them both blush.
Eventually, everyone noticed—
but I noticed first.
Of course I did.
They were sweet together—
so sweet it left a bitter aftertaste.
He’d lean in, whisper something,
and make her laugh.
Then she’d rest her head on his shoulder,
like she belonged there.
I laughed too—
too loud, too quick—
just to muffle
the ache beneath my ribs.
Because I, too, liked him.
Not like their movie-scene kind of love.
Mine lived in glances I would steal,
in quiet hopes I learned to hide.
I watched his smile, traced every line,
got lost in eyes that weren’t for mine—
He knew.
There was no doubt.
He saw the way I looked at him—
just once,
and that was enough.
But I swallowed it whole.
Because he had her.
And I cared for her, too.
We were a group, after all—
a circle, strong, unbroken.
And I didn’t want to be the edge
that made us stumble.
But one day, the jokes fell flat.
The air felt heavier—
something between them had quietly cracked,
like we were sitting in the ruins
of a house still standing,
but no longer home.
And it annoys me,
how we all tiptoe,
pretending not to see
the space they left behind.
How their quiet ending
shook the walls
of the house
we built together.
I just want them back.
Not the love, not the mess,
just the people.
Present.
Honest.
Loud with laughter,
not silence.
Because their story ended,
and somehow, it took the rest of us with it.
