I saw them before they saw me.
In the empty classroom.
Him holding her.
Her face buried in his chest.
Their fingers tangled like roots that never really let go.
Then they kissed.
Not a first kiss.
Not an experimental one.
But a kiss that screamed history.
A kiss that whispered, "I found you again."
I stood in the hallway, just far enough for the shadows to keep me hidden. My hands were stuffed in my jacket pockets, my eyes locked on the moment I knew was never mine to interrupt.
My jaw clenched.
I had tried.
I had stepped in when she forgot him.
I had walked her to class, made her laugh, been there for every fragile moment.
I had wanted to be the one.
But deep down — in the part of me I never said out loud — I knew I was never written in her story like he was.
She was always going to find her way back to him.
Because he was never just a boy she liked.
He was a memory stitched into her soul.
And I… I was the soft in-between.
The pause in the song before the chorus returned.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
My fingers gripped the notebook tucked under my arm — not the one I used for class… the one where I'd secretly written lyrics about her.
No one knew I wrote songs.
No one knew that almost every one of them had her name etched between the lines.
I turned away.
I didn't want to hate him.
He wasn't cruel. He wasn't careless.
He just… got to her first. And somehow, forever.
And maybe some people don't end up with the girl.
Maybe some are just meant to watch from afar and turn their heartbreak into melodies only the moon ever hears.
So I walked away.
Not because I stopped caring.
But because love — the real kind — doesn't always mean holding on.
Sometimes it means knowing when to let go.