Her POV
Too little too late
I don't remember the first time I realized I was losing him.
That's the cruel part. There was no moment sharp enough to blame, no single conversation I could replay and say, that's when it happened. It was more like watching water rise around your ankles so gradual you convince yourself it will stop, until suddenly you can't breathe.
We had always moved together. That was the rule of our lives. If one of us slowed, the other waited. If one of us was scared, the other stood close enough to make it bearable. I had never imagined a version of my life where he wasn't just… there.
High school taught me how wrong that assumption was.
The day the new student walked into our class, I noticed him shift in his seat. It was subtle, barely a movement, but I had known him long enough to recognize it. His attention sharpened not with interest, exactly, but with awareness.
She introduced herself softly. Perfect posture. Careful smile.
She didn't look lost.
That was the first thing that bothered me.
People who are new are usually nervous. Overwhelmed. She wasn't. Her eyes moved slowly across the room, taking everything in, cataloging faces and reactions. When they passed over him, they lingered just a second too long.
I told myself I was imagining it.
At first, she stayed on the edges. Asked harmless questions. Sat where teachers placed her. She played the role of the polite outsider flawlessly. But she always found reasons to speak to him.
"Can you explain this?"
"Which teacher is strict?"
"Is this school always like this?"
I watched her learn him.
She laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny. She listened when he talked about his future. She noticed things I had stopped noticing because I already knew them.
I didn't feel threatened at first. I trusted what we had. Years of history felt stronger than a stranger with a soft voice.
That confidence was my mistake.
The first real crack came during lunch. She started sitting closer to us never pushing me out, never openly inserting herself, just close enough to be included. She spoke less to me and more to him. Asked about his family. His plans. His opinions.
She never competed with me.
She didn't have to.
Slowly, he began turning toward her when she spoke.
I told myself it was nothing. That I was being childish. That friendship didn't mean ownership.
But then he stopped telling me things first.
He used to complain to me about everything teachers, assignments, people who annoyed him. One day, I realized I was hearing these stories after the fact, filtered through casual remarks instead of private conversations.
When I asked him if something was wrong, he sighed.
"You've been acting weird lately," he said.
Weird.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
The new student never confronted me directly. She didn't glare. Didn't argue. Instead, she did something far more effective.
She sympathized.
When he complained about me about how I asked too many questions, how I seemed upset all the time she nodded gently. She told him she understood how overwhelming it could be to have someone so emotionally dependent on you.
She said it kindly.
She made it sound reasonable.
And because she never spoke badly of me outright, he never questioned it.
I started to feel like I was constantly apologizing for existing. For wanting time. For wanting honesty. Every attempt to reach him ended with me feeling embarrassed, dramatic, excessive.
I overheard people whispering.
"She's obsessed with him."
"She doesn't give him space."
"No wonder he's annoyed."
He didn't defend me.
That hurt more than anything else.
The new student was always there for him available, understanding, unproblematic. She never asked for reassurance. Never demanded anything. She made herself easy to choose.
By the time college applications came around, I felt like I was already on the outside.
We had talked about college for years. Same campus. Same city. It had been our unspoken promise the proof that no matter what changed, we would still move forward together.
But promises only matter when both people remember them.
I filled out the application late one night, staring at the screen until my eyes burned. Then I opened another tab. A different university. Far enough away that I could breathe.
Changing it felt like betrayal.
Submitting it felt like freedom.
I didn't tell him. I couldn't. I wasn't sure I mattered enough anymore for it to make a difference.
When he found out, it was too late.
He looked panicked when he called my name in the hallway. Desperate. Confused. As if now—only now—he saw the distance between us.
He apologized. Tried to explain. Said things he should have said months ago.
I listened.
And realized I felt nothing.
The new student stood a few feet away, watching quietly. I caught her eyes for just a second. There was no guilt there. No triumph either.
Only satisfaction.
I walked away without looking back.
Some losses don't come with closure. Some people realize the truth only after they've already helped destroy it.
And by the time regret finds you, the person you hurt has already learned how to live without you.
Too little.
Too late.