Then “Jason’s party.”
But I knew it was Ted.
An upperclassman.
Captain of something.
With a signature smile and hands
that were used to holding more than just a beer—sometimes, two girls at once.
I saw her laughing beside him.
Kissing his neck.
Letting him lift her like a trophy.
I watched.
And said nothing.
I told myself,
“You knew. She’s free.
And you… you were just the one she relaxed with when she needed a break from her real life.”
But my heart refused the verdict.
I went to the shooting range.
Put on the protective headphones.
Gripped the gun.
Aimed—
but saw no target.
I saw him.
His smirk.
His hands on her waist.
His laughter—when she said things she used to say to me.
Bang.
Cold. Clean.
Inside—fire.
And at night, I prayed.
Not for love.
Not for her.
For myself.
“Oh Allah… Forgive me.
Not for loving—
but for hating.
For envying.
For wanting what isn’t mine.
Give me the strength to forgive. Or forget.”
I kept studying.
Said hi to her in the hallway.
Smiled.
She smiled back—softly, almost sadly.
As if she sensed it,
but couldn’t stop what had already started inside her.
She had gone somewhere
where I was a stranger.
But inside me,
the Nicole of those first weeks remained.
From quiet evenings on the bench.
From soft touches.
From words we never got to say.
Some people can’t love.
Not because they don’t want to.
But because no one ever showed them how.
Sometimes I thought:
Maybe it’s not about me.
Maybe it’s about her.
Maybe Nicole never truly felt love.
Maybe to her,
love was just closeness, touches, likes,
a “you’re so pretty” whispered at a party.
Maybe she learned warmth was physics, not soul.
I watched her laugh with him.
How easily she fell into his arms.
How she later walked out of his room
with a tired face and eyes that seemed to have lost something.
And I didn’t feel anger.
I felt… pity.
For her.
For me.
For us.
My inner monologue lasted for nights.
Why do I think about her?
Why does it hurt,
when there was nothing between us
but friendship and a couple of hugs under a streetlamp?
Why do I pray for her
while she’s laughing in someone else’s embrace?
Why do I want to protect her—
even from herself?
I started to understand:
This isn’t about having.
Not about her being mine.
I just wanted her to know
what it feels like to be truly loved.
Without transaction.
Without performance.
Without bedroom preludes replacing real conversations.