Mary and Rafael move through the corridors like they have a rhythm only they understand. I stay back, careful not to draw attention to myself, careful not to appear as though I care more than I should. But of course I care. Every time I see them together — the way Rafael leans just slightly too close when she laughs, the way she says he remembers every smallest detail about her, how she tilts her head when thinking, the little furrow in her brow when she gets serious — it burns. I've always wanted to say something, to step forward, to make her see that someone else could be steady for her, someone who doesn't just watch and wait for her happiness to ripple through someone else. But I can't. She loves Rafael too much. She would never listen to me. And so I keep quiet, carrying the tension like a weight across my shoulders, and I smile when she smiles, pretending that I'm only interested in the game of volleyball or the timing of exams, not the way my chest tightens when she comes near. Every day I rehearse what I might say if I dare — "I can be here for you, fully, if you'll let me" — but it remains locked inside. It sounds too simple, too sincere, and I know Mary would laugh at the awkwardness of it. Worse, she would think I'm overreacting. Worse still, she would not choose me. Not ever. Yet I keep noticing everything, cataloging it, remembering the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, how she glances at Rafael with trust and warmth, how her eyes soften when he speaks. And every time he isn't looking, I want to step in. I want to whisper to her that someone could care without complication, without making her quiet and out of words, without the secrets tucked behind those confident smiles. I imagine scenarios where I walk alongside her in the corridors, offer her a hand when she stumbles, carry her books when they are too heavy, listen when she wants to speak, give her the attention she deserves. None of it happens. None of it will. And yet the idea of doing all those things for her makes me feel alive in a way I cannot explain. I'm Brandon. I'm supposed to be rational, distant, a quiet presence. Yet she unravels me, slowly, carefully, without even knowing it.
In the dining hall, I watch her laugh at some small joke her tablemates make, and the edges of my mind tighten like a knot. I tell myself I'm being ridiculous, that she's happy, that I should be happy for her. But the truth is that I'm not. I'm not happy. I'm not satisfied. I want to be more than a shadow. I want her attention, her smile, her trust, without needing to compete, without needing to steal. And it hurts — hurts more than I expect — that she trusts someone else completely, that she relies on Rafael's care like it's the only care in the world. I remind myself that I have no right, no claim, no reason to interfere, yet I observe anyway, noticing every detail, every gesture. When they come to see each other, I feel that same tug in my chest, a longing that makes me want to step forward and say, "I'm here too." But I do not. I walk my own path, pretending that the weight on my shoulders is simply the fatigue of sports, the heat of the sun on the volleyball court, when in reality it is the pull of her presence, the pull of possibilities I can never admit aloud. And at night, when the dorms quiet and the other boys are asleep, I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction, every glance, every word spoken and unspoken. I think of how I can make her feel safer than Rafael can, how I could notice every detail without fail, how I can be constant in a way that is unobtrusive yet undeniable. I think of her smile, her laughter, the softness in her voice when she doesn't realize I'm paying attention. I think of Rafael — always close, always careful — and a surge of frustration rises up, sharp and bitter. Because even though I know she loves him, even though I know I can never take him from her, I still want to be the one she leans on. I want to be the one who matters without being noticed. And as sleep approaches, I close my eyes, knowing that tomorrow will be the same.I will watch. I will wait. I will silently compete in a race I cannot enter, longing for her without ever claiming her, and hoping that just being near, just being steady, will someday mean something.
I don't mean to look at them, but I do. They are in the back corner of the classroom, where there's a dim strip of light that makes everything look darker than it is. Rafael and Anna sit too close, closer than people who are simply classmates should sit. Their legs are touching, not by accident, not the careless brushing that happens under a desk, but deliberately, comfortably, as if neither of them feels the need to create distance. The classroom is noisy, chairs scraping against the floor, low conversations mixing together, someone laughing too loudly near the front, yet they seem untouched by any of it. They lean toward each other, whispering low, laughing slowly, like the world beyond their shared space has faded into something irrelevant. Anna tilts her head when she listens to him, and Rafael bends slightly toward her when he speaks, his voice quieter than usual, reserved for her ears alone. From where I sit, watching without appearing to watch, it looks intimate in a way that makes my jaw tighten. To me, they might kiss if there weren't other people in the room. The possibility lingers in the way his eyes stay on her lips a second too long, in the way her fingers hover near his wrist before pulling back. What angers me most is not even the closeness itself but how happy Rafael looks. He looks completely unguarded, like he is enjoying every single second of her presence without restraint, without guilt, without remembering that someone else waits for him as if he is the center of her world. He smiles in a way I rarely see, wide and careless, his shoulders relaxed, his whole body angled toward Anna as though she is the only thing worth noticing. It makes something hot and sharp twist in my chest because he looks free, and I cannot understand how someone can look that free when he already belongs, at least in Mary's eyes, to something steady and loyal. Then I see Mary at the doorway. She doesn't enter the classroom immediately. She stands there quietly, holding her notebook against her chest, her gaze moving across the room with that familiar softness she always carries when she searches for him. It is almost instinctive, the way she looks for Rafael first before anything else. When her eyes land on the back corner, I see the exact second she finds him. She sees the way they sit, the way their legs are joined, the way he leans in close, whispering something that makes Anna laugh under her breath. She sees him smiling like that. She doesn't speak. She doesn't call his name. She just stands there, still, as if she is waiting for him to look up, to feel her presence the way she always seems to feel his. But he doesn't. He doesn't even glance toward the door. He keeps talking, keeps laughing, keeps existing inside that small private world he has built in the corner of the classroom. Mary's fingers tighten slightly around her notebook, and the softness in her expression shifts into something smaller, something quieter. It is not dramatic. She does not look angry. She looks diminished, and that is worse. After a moment that feels longer than it probably is, she turns back immediately and walks away without making a sound, as if she was never there. He never notices. He remains unaware, still smiling, still leaning close, still enjoying every second. And I sit there watching all of it unfold, feeling the anger rise not just from jealousy but from something that feels almost righteous. Because how can he look that happy with someone else while Mary stands in doorways waiting for him to notice her? How can he not feel that she is near? I grip the edge of my desk without realizing it, my jaw tight, my thoughts louder than the classroom noise. This is what I mean. This is exactly what I mean. He does not see her the way he should. He does not guard what she gives him so freely. And maybe she will pretend she saw nothing, maybe she will convince herself it means nothing, but I saw it. I see everything. And this time, I do not look away.
I stand up before I even realize I've made the decision. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor, a sharp sound that cuts through the classroom noise, but I don't care. Rafael doesn't look up. Of course he doesn't. He's still leaning toward Anna, still smiling like nothing else exists. I step out into the corridor and the air feels colder, quieter, like I've crossed into something separate from the warmth of that back corner. Mary isn't far. She walks steadily down the hall, not fast, not slow, just composed. That composure unsettles me more than anything. If she were angry, if she were crying, if she were visibly hurt, I would understand it. I would know what to do with it. But she isn't. She walks like someone who has decided something privately and refuses to let it show. I call her name once, not too loud, and she stops. She turns toward me with that same controlled expression, her notebook still pressed against her chest like a shield. I ask if she's leaving, even though I know she came looking for him. She shrugs lightly and says she just forgot something, that it's nothing important. Nothing important. The words irritate me instantly. How can it be nothing? I just watched her see him like that. I step closer, searching her face for a crack, for some sign that she feels what I know she feels. I tell her she saw them. It isn't a question. Her eyes flicker for half a second, then settle again, calm, almost detached. She says it doesn't matter. She says he can sit with whoever he wants. She says it like she believes it, and that angers me more than if she had shouted at him in front of everyone. Because this calm, this quiet acceptance, means she is still holding on to him. She is still choosing him, even when he doesn't notice her standing in doorways. Something tightens in my chest, frustration mixing with something dangerously close to desperation. I tell her it looked like more than just sitting. I can't stop myself. She stiffens slightly, but her voice remains firm. She tells me not to imagine things. She says Anna is just a friend. The certainty in her tone sounds practiced, like she has repeated those words to herself before today. I study her face, the way her jaw sets, the way her fingers press harder into the edge of her notebook, and I see that she is fighting something, but she refuses to let me witness it. That refusal makes me restless. I want her to admit it hurt. I want her to say she felt something twist when she saw him smiling like that. I want her to be angry so I can tell her she deserves better. Instead she stands there steady, composed, protecting him even when he isn't present to defend himself. I tell her she doesn't have to pretend, not with me. For a moment something flashes in her eyes, something vulnerable and raw, but it disappears almost instantly. She shakes her head and says there is nothing to pretend about. Her voice turns firmer, almost cold, and I realize she is building a wall in front of me brick by brick. She won't let me inside this. She won't let me speak against him. And that realization both angers and worries me, because if she can watch him like that and still defend him, still refuse to question him, then she is more attached than I thought. She cannot let him go. Not even a little. Not even when he is careless. I stand there feeling helpless, knowing what I saw, knowing she saw it too, yet being unable to pull a single honest confession out of her. I try once more, softer now, asking if she's sure she's okay. She nods immediately, too quickly. She says she is fine, that I shouldn't worry, that there is nothing going on. Nothing. The word echoes in my head like an insult. Because there is something. There is always something. But she refuses to name it. She adjusts her grip on the notebook and says she should get back before class ends. I watch her walk away, her posture straight, her steps measured, and the frustration settles deep inside me. She would rather swallow her hurt than question him. She would rather stay calm than risk losing him. And I remain in the corridor, realizing that no matter how clearly I see what is happening, it won't matter if she keeps choosing not to see it herself.