She had seen enough.

Her eyes never left his, watching, waiting—searching for something that would never come. He was happier with her. Happier than he had ever been with her.

And that thought shattered her into a million jagged pieces, shards of glass she would step on again and again, just to feel him.

Maybe she was foolish. Maybe she was persistent. Or maybe—maybe she was just in love. But she would never know, because they would never be a we, never an us.

He had chosen her.

The other girl.

The better choice.

So she stayed. Because that’s what she did. Always there. Always waiting. And each time another girl broke his heart, she would be the one to pick up the pieces. The one to remind him he was still whole.

And in those moments, he would look at her, those hazel eyes soft—eyes that don’t belong to a killer. Yet they killed her all the same.

Because those eyes, the ones she adored, the ones that held every unspoken word she longed to hear, were never truly looking at her. Not the way she wanted. Not the way she needed.

She knew the truth. She had always known. She just never let herself say it out loud:

He would never be hers.

And yet, no matter how much she tried to fight it—

She would always be his.

Even if he never was hers.