Prologue

I still can't understand.

I never expected to, I suppose, but that doesn't make it any more or less frustrating when I hear them talking, whispering – when I clench my hands into fists and grit my teeth and scream inside because I don't have any place to put my anger. It's purposeless. And it's infuriating.

Especially because I can't be mad at either of them. What do I say, "I'm sad because you're in love"? Not only would it sound incredibly bitter; it's also embarrassing.

He'll tell me I'm his best friend. He'll say that I'm so important, so significant, and that we have a connection that he doesn't have with anyone else. We could talk for hours about nothing – about anything – and it's just so comfortable and so fluent, and I tell myself that it actually matters.

But he'd give me up for her, I know it. When she's around he acts as if I'm not, and they unintentionally close themselves off in an intangible little bubble that I could never hope to penetrate.

So I stopped trying.