Unseen

Him

It started with a smile.

Not mine.

His. As

I saw it before she told me anything—this new glow in her eyes, like she was carrying a secret she wasn’t ready to share. The kind of glow people get when they’ve been kissed in the rain or told they’re someone’s favorite person.

I knew before she said a word.

Still, I waited.

And one morning at Brewed Awakenings, in the middle of a laugh that faded into a quiet hum, she finally said, “I met someone.”

I smiled. A reflex. A mask.

“Oh yeah?” I said, stirring my coffee that didn’t need stirring.

“His name’s Jordan. We met at the bookstore near my place. He asked for a poetry recommendation and I gave him my favorite—he actually bought it.”

“Clearly a man of taste,” I said, my voice even.

She laughed, nodding. “Right? He’s really thoughtful. Not flashy. Just… easy to be around.”

I wanted to ask, Like me?

But I didn’t.

Instead, I asked, “Have you seen him again?”

Her smile widened. “We’ve had coffee twice already. He listens. He remembers things I say. It’s kind of strange… I’m not used to that.”

I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.

I didn’t say, I’ve been listening for months.

I didn’t say, I remember everything you’ve ever told me.

⸻

After that day, he became part of her stories.

Casually at first.

A “Jordan said this” or “Jordan sent me this song.”

She didn’t mean to distance us—but I felt it anyway. A slow shift. A rewiring of our connection.

The daily songs we shared? They started to skip days.

Late-night texts? Shorter. Less frequent.

I told myself not to be jealous.

Jealousy wasn’t fair. She wasn’t mine.

But knowing that didn’t stop the ache in my chest every time his name came up.

⸻

One evening, she texted me a photo. It was a Polaroid.

Him and her. Sitting on a bench. Laughing at something outside the frame.

She captioned it: “Isn’t it weird how you just find people?”

I stared at that message for a long time.

And then I replied:

“Yeah. It’s weird.”

But what I wanted to say was: I was already here.

⸻

Days passed. Then weeks. We still saw each other—occasionally. Still talked—just enough to keep the threads intact.

But I felt it unraveling.

And what hurt the most was how easy it seemed for her. Like she hadn’t noticed the quiet growing between us.

Maybe she didn’t.

Or maybe she did and chose not to say anything.

Sometimes, silence isn’t forgetfulness.

Sometimes, it’s mercy.

⸻

Then one afternoon, we met by accident.

Not at the coffee shop.

Not on purpose.

I was walking past the park and there she was—on the grass with him. A picnic blanket. A small speaker. Two cups. Her head on his shoulder.

I froze.

She didn’t see me.

He leaned over and kissed her temple.

And I walked away.

⸻

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I tried writing. Deleting. Writing again.

Finally, I opened the playlist we had made together and added one last song.

“From Afar” by Vance Joy.

No message.

Just the music.

⸻

The next day, she replied.

“That one hurt.”

I stared at the screen. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Finally, I sent:

“Sometimes love doesn’t look the way we expect.”

She didn’t answer after that.

And I didn’t add any more songs.