[FULL] I had been in a secret relationship with Miles Sterling, my best friend’s younger brother, for a whole year.

The Reveal Dinner

A story of secrets, sisters, and the price of being someone’s afterthought

Chapter One: The Text That Started It

I had loved Miles Sterling in secret for exactly one year, three hundred and sixty-five days of separate cars, late-night texts, and pretending to be “just friends” whenever his older sister Hannah — my best friend since college — was in the room. He’d sworn he needed time. He was shy, he said. His family would ask too many questions, he said. Once he was ready, he’d tell them himself, and it would be our moment, not something rushed or forced.

I believed him because I loved him, and because a year of hiding felt like proof of how much he cared — why else would he go to such lengths to protect something so fragile?

On the morning of our anniversary, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while I was pouring coffee I was too nervous to drink.

Miles: Come over for dinner tonight. I want to make our relationship official.

I read it four times. I set the coffee down, picked the phone back up, and read it a fifth time, just to be sure the words weren’t rearranging themselves into something less than what they said.

Official. The word I’d been waiting a year to hear.

Hannah called an hour later, practically vibrating through the phone.

“Jade. Jade, are you sitting down? Miles is finally bringing someone home tonight. My parents are freaking out — he’s never introduced anyone before. Come over, you have to help me grill her.”

I laughed, and it came out only slightly unsteady. “I’ll be there.”

I hung up and stood very still in my kitchen for a long moment, my heart doing something complicated and enormous in my chest. He was finally going to do it. After a year of goodbyes in parking garages and hands let go of half a block from any restaurant we might be recognized in, Miles was ready to stand in his family’s living room and say my name out loud.

I got ready with the kind of care usually reserved for weddings. I wore the necklace he’d given me for our six-month anniversary. I picked a bouquet of pink peonies from the flower stand near my building — my favorite, the same ones he brought me nearly every month, appearing on my doorstep like small, fragrant apologies for another week of hiding. I drove to the Sterling house with the flowers on the passenger seat and something bright and terrified blooming in my chest.

I did not know, walking up that driveway, that I was about to become the punchline of a story I hadn’t agreed to be in.

Chapter Two: The Girl at the Table

The Sterling dining room smelled like roasted chicken and good intentions. I stepped inside, peonies in hand, already composing the sentence I’d practiced in the car — Hannah, there’s something I need to tell you — when I saw them.

Miles was sitting at the head of the table. Beside him sat a young woman with wide, nervous eyes and a softness to her that seemed almost rehearsed, like fragility she’d practiced in a mirror. She was clutching a purse — the same brand, same color, right down to the little gold clasp, as the one hanging from my own shoulder. Her shoes, white low heels, matched a pair sitting in my closet at home.

For one full second, the room tilted.

I understood, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, that I was not here to become official. I was here to watch someone else become official instead.

I do not know how I kept my face from cracking open. Some old, useful instinct — the kind that gets you through job interviews and eulogies — took over, and I heard myself say, in a voice that sounded almost like my own:

“Hey there, little brother. And hello to your new girlfriend.”

Miles went the color of the tablecloth. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had swallowed something jagged.

Hannah, oblivious, clapped her hands together with delight. “Jade! This is Mia. Mia, this is Miles’s oldest friend — practically part of the family.”

Mia gave me a small, timid smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. Miles has told me a little about everyone, but not much about you, actually.”

“That’s funny,” I said, setting the peonies down on the table like they weighed nothing at all. “He’s never mentioned you either.”

Miles cleared his throat, his hands visibly trembling under the table. “Jade — can I talk to you for a second? In the kitchen?”

I followed him, my heels clicking against the hardwood like a countdown.

The moment we were alone, he turned to me, panic written across every feature. “Jade, I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like.”

“What exactly does it look like, Miles?” My voice came out low, steady, terrifyingly calm. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you invited me here to introduce your family to a girlfriend I didn’t know existed — while I’ve spent a full year waiting for you to introduce me as exactly that.”

“It just happened,” he whispered. “I met her a few months ago at work, and — I don’t know, things got complicated. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

“By making me watch you present her to your family instead?”

He had no answer for that. He never did, for the questions that mattered.

I looked past him, back toward the dining room, where Mia sat turning that too-familiar purse over in her lap, glancing toward the kitchen door like she was trying to piece something together. Something about the whole tableau felt less like coincidence and more like she’d been studying me from a distance for a long time — cataloguing, collecting, preparing.

I took a breath, smoothed my expression back into something polite, and walked back to the table. “Sorry about that. Miles just needed my opinion on something.”

Dinner went on, agonizingly long, Mia occasionally glancing at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle she couldn’t quite see the edges of. When it finally ended, I made my excuses and left before dessert, claiming an early morning.

Miles texted before I’d even reached my car. Jade, please let me explain everything properly.

I didn’t answer. I sat in the driveway of my own apartment complex and let the numbness settle over me like a blanket too heavy to be comforting.

Chapter Three: The Copy of a Girl

Over the following days, Miles texted, then called, then showed up outside my apartment twice. I didn’t open the door. He sent flowers to my office — a bouquet I returned to the front desk, unopened, unremarked upon.

Hannah, still blissfully unaware, texted a few days later: Mia is so sweet. I think she’s really good for Miles. What did you think of her?

I stared at the message for a long time before typing back: She seemed nice.

A week later, scrolling through social media at eleven at night because sleep had become theoretical, I found Mia’s profile and my stomach dropped clean through the floor.

A photo of pink peonies, captioned: Someone really knows how to make a girl feel special.

A matcha latte from the café two blocks from the Sterling house — the same café Miles and I used to visit every weekend, tucked into a corner booth where nobody who knew his family would think to look.

A bag of the caramel popcorn he always bought for movie nights, because it was my favorite, and he’d apparently decided it was hers too.

A new designer tote, nearly identical to the one he’d given me for Christmas.

It felt less like coincidence and more like watching someone slowly, methodically becoming me.

A few days after that, I opened a small box tucked in the back of my closet — concert tickets Miles had given me months ago, for a show happening the following weekend. The show we were supposed to attend together, before an entire year collapsed in on itself at a dinner table.

Out of some masochistic curiosity, I checked Mia’s page again.

A new post. A photo of the same tickets. Can’t wait for our first concert date together.

I sat on my bedroom floor and felt something shift inside me — something colder and sharper than sadness, something with edges.

My phone buzzed. Hannah, with a different tone this time. Hey, random question. Mia keeps asking odd things about you. Your job, your style, even whether you were seeing anyone. Did you two know each other before?

No idea, I typed. Why do you ask?

No reason. Just felt weird. Forget it.

Of course Mia had questions. She’d spent one evening at a family dinner and had already started collecting loose threads like a small, nervous spider with excellent shoes.

Miles texted again that night. Please talk to me. I can explain. Mia — then it got complicated. I never meant to hurt you.

That was my favorite line from cowards. It arrived free with every betrayal, like a receipt nobody had asked for.

I didn’t answer.

Chapter Four: The Lunch That Wasn’t

Two days later, Hannah dragged me back to the Sterling house for lunch. “Don’t be weird,” she warned in the driveway.

“I am never weird. I once labeled leftovers emotionally unavailable because nobody ate them.”

“They were emotionally unavailable.” She rolled her eyes and pulled me toward the door. “Miles is stressed, Mia’s acting like she’s got a secret, and Mom thinks everyone’s just hungry. I need backup.”

The house smelled like roast chicken and family denial. Miles stood in the living room beside Mia, who wore a soft cream sweater — the exact shade I’d worn the first time Miles took me to dinner — her hair curled loosely, like she’d studied old photos of me and asked a salon for the fragile-girlfriend package.

Miles saw me and nearly dropped the glass in his hand.

Mia looked up with that same sweet smile. “Hannah told me you’re seeing someone too, Jade.”

There it was — the trap, wrapped in sugar.

Hannah clapped once. “Yes! Please explain. I’ve been patient for forty-eight hours, which is basically a spiritual retreat for me.”

Miles did not breathe.

I looked at him, then at Mia, then back at him. “Yes, I am seeing someone. But tonight, I realized — maybe we were both seeing him.”

The room froze. Miles opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again — a man auditioning for a sentence he couldn’t find.

Hannah laughed once, sharp. “What?”

Mia’s smile twitched. “I’m sorry — I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Fragile girls never know what they mean until someone opens the group chat.”

Miles took a step toward me. “Can we talk privately?”

“No hallway this time,” I said. “You hid me in private for a year. You can apologize in public for at least five minutes.”

Hannah turned to look at her brother. He looked away.

That was the first crack.

Mia’s eyes sharpened for a second, then softened deliberately, professionally. “I don’t want to make things awkward. Miles has just been so sweet to me. I thought if Jade was seeing someone too, maybe we could all be friends.”

“How generous,” I said. “A double date with the man in common.”

“The what in common?” Hannah whispered.

The room began to unravel in small, precise increments — the umbrella he’d given her in the rain (the same one he’d given me the winter before), the cold medicine he’d brought when she was sick (the same brand, the same bag), the snacks and heating pads for cramps, the drive across town at midnight. Every gesture Mia listed off as proof of devotion, I recognized, piece by piece, as an inventory of my own relationship, quietly restocked and resold.

“Commitment to inventory is rare,” I said, my voice flatter with each item. “He really believes in recycling.”

Hannah’s hand covered her mouth, not quite hiding the sound she made.

Then Mia mentioned the concert tickets — front row, hard to get, a gift from Miles.

I went very still. “I bought those tickets,” I said. “For your birthday, Miles. I saved for two months because you said you wanted to hear that band live. I couldn’t afford a ticket for myself. You told me to go with my best friend instead.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Chapter Five: The Purse on the Table

“Miles, did you seriously take tickets from Jade and rebrand them as romance?” Hannah’s chair scraped against the floor as she rose.

“I was going to replace them,” he said weakly.

“When? After the concert? Spiritually?”

I looked down at my hands. “I thought I gave my boyfriend a birthday gift. Turns out I sponsored another woman’s love story. I would’ve at least liked producer credit.”

Mia’s composure finally slipped. “You’re acting like I stole from you.”

“You didn’t steal a man,” I said. “You inherited a used playlist.”

“You’re bitter,” she snapped. “You weren’t enough for him. You weren’t the upgrade — you were the sequel with the same script and worse reviews.”

I felt the words land somewhere old and tender, and I let them. Then Hannah’s mother called from the kitchen — lunch is ready — and nobody moved, because somewhere in the last ten minutes, lunch had stopped being the point.

We ended up at the table anyway, because Hannah declared she needed carbs to process learning her brother was, in her words, “a bargain-bin romantic plagiarist.” Mia sat stiff and furious across from me. Miles sat beside her, guilty in every direction at once. Hannah sat next to me like a bodyguard armed with salad tongs.

Then Mia set her purse on the table.

My purse. Same brand, same color, same small gold charm Miles had bought me after my first promotion.

I lifted mine from beside my chair and set it next to hers without a word.

The table went silent.

“Twins,” I said. “Unlike his loyalty.”

Hannah stared between the two identical bags, then at her brother. “Did my brother buy girlfriend uniforms?”

“Hannah — no—” Miles started.

“No, Hannah. Uniforms require planning. This was more like emotional copy-paste.”

Something in the room had shifted permanently. Mia’s careful softness cracked at the edges, replaced by something colder underneath. Miles sat with his palms pressed to his eyes, a man watching two floors of his life collapse into one basement.

“Fine,” Mia said, chin lifting. “Jade dated him first. Congratulations. But he brought me home. He made me official with the anniversary text. He chose me with my purse. He gave me the concert tickets.”

That one landed. Miles went very still.

I looked at him slowly. Mia noticed, and smiled like she’d found blood in the water.

“The concert is next weekend,” she said. “Front row. He said it was hard to get them.”

I laughed once — not because it was funny, but because if I didn’t laugh, I might have thrown the salad bowl across the room. “I bought those tickets,” I said again, quieter this time, and true.

Hannah’s head snapped toward her brother. “What?”

Chapter Six: The Woman Conference

It escalated the way spilled water finds every crack in a floor.

Mia, realizing the ticket confession had turned the room against her, went on the offensive. “You’re bitter, reasonably. You weren’t the upgrade.”

“Mia,” I said, “don’t smile too hard. You didn’t steal a man. You inherited a used playlist.”

“You’re acting like I stole from you,” she snapped again, louder.

“I’m saying Miles has a romance template,” I said, “and apparently forgot to change the recipient’s name.”

Hannah gripped the back of the sofa like she needed it to remain standing. “Oh my god.”

Miles stood, hands raised. “Enough. Both of you.”

“No,” Hannah said, slamming her water glass down hard enough that it rattled the table. “You don’t get to moderate the woman conference you caused.” She turned to her brother, and her voice cracked with something rawer than anger. “Hannah, I’m your brother,” he started.

“And she was my family before you turned her into your practice girlfriend.”

That silenced the room entirely.

My throat tightened. I’d prepared myself, driving to that first dinner, to possibly lose Miles. I had never once prepared myself for the fear of losing Hannah too. She reached under the table and found my hand, squeezing it hard enough to hurt.

“You didn’t cheat on some stranger,” she told her brother. “You used my best friend as your emotional training wheels.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” Miles whispered.

Hannah laughed without any humor in it at all. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone. You just wanted everyone quiet while you picked a girlfriend like choosing a phone plan.”

“No,” I added. “You meant to keep me quiet. The hurting was just a subscription feature.”

Mia, trembling now, grabbed her purse — my purse’s twin — off the table. “I am leaving.”

“Take it,” I said. “It might come with memories if you shake it.”

Miles followed her into the hallway. At the front door, she spun on him. “Did you copy everything from her?”

He hesitated.

“Mia,” I called from the dining room, “if he pauses before answering, that means the file is loading.”

Hannah lost it completely — one hand braced on the wall, laughing like she’d been stabbed with joy instead of grief. Mia looked at Miles with open disgust, stepped back from his reaching hand, and asked, one item at a time, whether the roses, the medicine, the umbrella, the concert tickets had all been recycled from someone else.

No answer. No answer. No answer.

“You gave me a secondhand boyfriend,” she said, voice cracking.

“You wanted my place,” I said from the table. “Congratulations. It comes with a man who cannot write his own captions.”

She stormed out without him. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.

Chapter Seven: What the Internet Decided

Miles’s apologies arrived faster than I could ignore them. I love you. I made a mistake. Mia means nothing. You know me better than anyone. I was going to tell everyone. Please don’t leave me.

I screenshotted every one — not because I planned to forgive him, but because men fueled by panic and revisionist history are exactly why phones have storage.

Mia posted first. Being chosen says everything. Then, five minutes later: Some women don’t know when to let go. Then: Official is official.

I stared at that last word until it stopped hurting and became almost funny.

That night, I built a carousel post. No names. No tears. No begging. Just receipts, and just enough humor to make the internet lean in closer.

“How to tell if your boyfriend has a copy-paste personality.”

Slide one: if he says he’s shy, check whether he’s also dating someone else with better lighting.

Slide two: winter roses are cute. Winter roses, used twice, is inventory management.

Slide three: if your medicine bag has a twin, congratulations — you’re in a loyalty program.

Slide four: if the umbrella story sounds familiar, he might be emotionally sustainable. He recycles.

Slide five: if your designer purse has a sequel, check the reviews before purchase.

Final slide: if your boyfriend has a template — leave, before he updates the recipient name.

I posted it and went to sleep, expecting little. By morning, it had gone quietly, then loudly, viral. First people laughed because it was funny. Then people from our shared circle began connecting the dots. Wait — isn’t that Mia’s purse? A friend from college added a memory: Miles did winter roses for Jade too. I remember because she cried in the bathroom and called it romance.

Hannah commented from her own account: Unfortunately, the copy machine is my brother.

That line did real damage. It spread everywhere. Copy machine brother. Girlfriend uniforms. Emotional copy-paste. Used playlist. Someone built a meme titled Miles Sterling Starter Pack — roses, medicine bag, umbrella, stolen tickets, matching purse.

By noon Mia had posted a tearful video, red-eyed under perfect lighting. I did not know Jade was obsessed with my relationship. I am not responsible for another woman’s jealousy.

I replied once. Obsessed? Mia, I posted a product review. You two recognized the defect.

Hannah reposted it with her own line: Please stop tagging me. I am related to the printer, not the printouts.

People started tagging Miles with printer emojis. Mia’s fragile persona collapsed in the comments within the hour, someone eventually asking why she’d been wearing my purse and my shoes and using my boyfriend’s recycled flower subscription. She deleted the comment. It was already too late — screenshots had grown legs of their own.

Chapter Eight: The Printer Era

Miles showed up at my apartment that evening. Hannah was already inside, armed, somewhat theatrically, with a wooden spoon.

“Jade, can we talk?”

“Are you here as Miles,” Hannah asked over my shoulder, “or printer settings?”

He closed his eyes. “Hannah, please.”

“No.”

I crossed my arms. “Talk. Publicly. You hid me in private for a year. Public is our new hobby.”

His face twisted with something like real grief. “I love you.”

“You loved convenience.”

“I can change.”

“Great. Start with your passwords and your personality.”

Hannah made a small choking sound behind me.

“I chose wrong,” he said.

“You didn’t choose wrong. You chose loudly.”

He tried, clumsily, to explain — that he’d thought making things official with someone else might force himself to move on, that seeing me at the table had made him realize what a mistake that was, that Mia hadn’t known about the peonies or the popcorn or the café or the tickets, not until she’d pieced enough of my life together to develop a personality of her own.

“That’s the dumbest therapy plan I have ever heard,” Hannah muttered.

“Stop using tears as customer service,” I told him, and something in his face finally, fully broke.

“Do you hate me?” he asked his sister.

Hannah’s expression softened for exactly one second before hardening again. “I don’t hate you. I’m embarrassed to be related to the copy machine.” She stepped closer to him, voice shaking now with something rawer than the jokes had let show. “You made me help humiliate my best friend. You had me call her over to grill your new girlfriend while she thought she was coming to finally become one. Do you understand how disgusting that is?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, to both of us, and then, when I said nothing, produced something longer — an apology with actual items on it. Hiding me. Cheating. Using Hannah as cover. Giving Mia things that belonged to us. Taking the concert tickets. Making me feel like a secret and then replacing me in front of his family.

“Better,” I admitted. Hope flickered somewhere in his eyes.

“Still no,” I said, and watched it die. Good. Hope had done enough property damage in my life already.

Chapter Nine: The Family Finds Out

Hannah told their parents the following week. I wasn’t there, but she sent me the voice memo afterward — her mother’s voice, sharp with disbelief: Miles Sterling, you did what? Hannah’s response, exasperated: No, Mom, listen — it gets more stupid. Their father, apparently sitting down halfway through, managing only, The tickets, too?

Mia was no longer welcome at the Sterling house. Miles was no longer permitted to explain himself without someone in the family asking whether the explanation had been field-tested on another woman first. Respect didn’t vanish all at once — it leaked out slowly, every time someone mentioned roses and the room went quiet.

At a friend’s gathering the following week, Hannah insisted I come. “No hiding,” she said. “You don’t have to perform. The receipts already covered that for you.”

Miles arrived alone. Mia arrived fifteen minutes later in a dress designed to look innocent and expensive. The room noticed both of them and grew hungry for it. Mia tried a smile at me; I gave her one back, sweet enough to rot teeth, sharp enough to leave a mark.

“He chose me,” she said finally, cornered by the room’s collective silence.

“Did he?” I asked. “Because he’s standing over there looking like a man whose printer jammed during tax season.”

Someone laughed into their drink. A friend asked Miles directly if he’d really used my gift tickets to take Mia to the concert. He rubbed his jaw. “I made a mistake.”

“We’re going to need a bigger word,” Hannah said.

Mia tried once more to salvage the narrative — he told me you two were over — until I reminded her exactly when she’d found out otherwise: my anniversary text, my purse, my peonies, my tickets. “That’s not fair,” she said.

“No,” I told her. “It was unfair when you tried to turn being secondhand into a victory parade.”

Her eyes filled again, right on cue, and this time nobody in the room rushed to comfort her. Her performance had run its course. She turned to Miles for backup — tell them you loved me — and he said nothing at all, which was, in the end, the truest thing he’d said all night.

She left without him, and for the first time, nobody in that room described her as delicate.

Chapter Ten: The Invoice

I wasn’t going to sue him. This was never a legal drama — I simply like neat endings, and I have a weakness for humiliation with proper formatting.

So I made a document: Invoice for Romantic Recycling Services. Front-row concert tickets, reimbursement required. Anniversary flowers, repurposed for another woman. Emotional damages, waived, because I was feeling generous. Designer purse inspiration, creative direction fee. One year of secrecy, non-refundable, but publicly acknowledged at last. A borrowed hoodie, never returned — return immediately, it looked better on me anyway.

Hannah edited it in red like a proud, vindictive teacher. Add printer tax. Mention the coward-update fee. Ask for late-payment shame.

I sent it to Miles. He paid within ten minutes. The hoodie arrived the next morning in a box with a handwritten note: I kept the hoodie. Recycled the note. It felt fair.

Two days later, he posted a public apology — a plain black screen, white text. He admitted to hiding our relationship for a year, to cheating, to reusing gestures and gifts on someone else instead of being honest with either of us. Jade didn’t lie about what happened. Hannah didn’t exaggerate. I was wrong. I’m sorry.

The comments were merciless and, in their way, deserved. Printer has ink today. Boyfriend updated to Honesty 1.0 — still not original, but at least readable.

Hannah sent me a screenshot: Bro cheated with control-plus-C. Beneath it, her own message: I fear the internet has my bloodline.

I laughed for the first time in weeks without it hurting on the way out.

Chapter Eleven: Front Row

A month passed. Mia tried to rebuild her image with soft photos and quotes about healing from toxic women, unaware — or perhaps painfully aware — that everyone now understood her definition of toxic woman to mean the one whose entire aesthetic she’d unknowingly cosplayed. Her relationship with Miles didn’t survive the fallout. She posted about choosing herself; he quietly deleted their photos. Someone commented, return the playlist before you go.

Miles tried once more, this time by email — a long message about regret and fear, about feeling pressured, about how Mia had made things easy and I had always known him best, about wanting a future.

I read it once and replied: For one year, I thought you hid me because you were shy. Now I know you were only hiding the fact that your love had a template.

Then I blocked him.

Hannah showed up that night with wine, snacks, and a tiny toy printer she’d bought online, taped with a handwritten sign: Retired due to emotional misconduct. I laughed until I had to sit down.

Two weeks later, the concert I’d once bought tickets for — the one Miles had tried to hand to Mia as her first date — finally arrived. I hadn’t planned to go. Then Hannah showed up at my door in glitter eyeliner, holding two front-row tickets she refused to explain the price of. “I am a woman with rage and an internet connection,” she said. “Tonight is not about financial literacy.”

We stood front row for two hours, and for those two hours, Miles didn’t exist. Mia didn’t exist. There was no kitchen panic, no matching purse, no seat waiting to humiliate me. There was only my best friend, screaming the lyrics wrong with total confidence, and me, laughing so hard my ribs ached, impossible — for once — to hide.

After the concert, my phone buzzed. A new number. I miss us. I ruined everything. I still love you.

I looked at it under the streetlights for a long moment, remembering the boy who had once waited outside my office in the rain because I’d forgotten my jacket, and the boy who had handed every one of those memories to someone else like used gift wrap.

I typed my answer once, and it was the last thing I ever said to him: For one year, I thought you hid me because you were shy. Now I know you were only hiding the fact that your love had a template. Do not contact me again.

Block.

Epilogue: Not the Draft Folder

Months later, Hannah and I returned to the Sterling house for her birthday. I hesitated at the door until she squeezed my arm. “He’s not here. Mom made sure.”

Inside, at dessert, Hannah’s mother took my hand and said quietly, “I owe you an apology too. I should have noticed something was wrong that night. You looked hurt, and I thought you were tired.”

I hadn’t expected gentle guilt from someone who wasn’t trying to weaponize it. I only nodded and thanked her.

Hannah raised her fork. “To Jade — who survived my brother’s printer era.”

Everyone laughed, myself included. Not because it didn’t hurt anymore, but because it no longer owned the room.

Miles had wanted me quiet, so he could choose without consequence. Mia had wanted me humiliated, so she could feel chosen. Instead, Hannah found out. The family found out. The friends found out. The internet found out. The concert tickets found their rightful audience, front row, exactly where they belonged.

And I learned, slowly, that being official was never about a dinner table, or a last name, or a man finally admitting out loud what you already were to him.

It was about refusing to stay filed away in the draft folder of someone else’s life.

— The End —

https://youtu.be/d9t2glWNmok?si=Jlq0lmlPSEOvKp9X