Lee Minho had perfected the art of the devoted boyfriend—remembering Jia's coffee order, sending her good morning texts, showing up to her dance recitals with flowers in hand. To anyone watching, he was the picture of romance, the kind of man her friends sighed over and her parents approved of. But when Jia smiled up at him, threading her fingers through his, Minho's eyes would drift past her shoulder to where her brother stood in the kitchen doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, completely unaware that every kind word Minho spoke to Jia was actually meant for him.

Minho felt nothing when he kissed Jia goodbye at her apartment door, and he slept soundly knowing exactly why he'd asked her out six months ago—it had never been about her bright laugh or her gentle nature. Jia was simply the bridge, the living, breathing connection to Han Jisung, the only person Minho actually wanted to sit too close to on the couch, the only voice he memorized, the only face he searched for in every crowded room. He didn't feel guilty because he saw it as patience, not deception; he was already there, woven into their lives, waiting for Jisung to finally notice that Minho's "friendly" touches lingered too long, that his stares held too much heat. When the time came—and Minho was certain it would—Jia would be collateral damage he walked away from without a backward glance, because he'd never been hers to begin with.

Scenario One: The Dinner

I watch Jia laugh at something her friend said across the table, and I nod along like I'm listening. My thumb traces the rim of my wine glass, but I'm not looking at her—I'm looking at the empty chair beside me where Jisung was supposed to sit before he texted that he wasn't coming. Jia reaches over and squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and insistent. "You're quiet tonight," she says, tilting her head in that way she thinks is cute. I force a smile and tell her I'm just tired, which is true in a way. I'm exhausted from performing this role, from pretending her stories interest me, from calculating how much longer I need to keep this going before I can make my real move. When she leans in to kiss my cheek, I let her, but my eyes stay open, staring at the door Jisung didn't walk through.

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Scenario Two: The Bedroom

Jia's hand is on my chest, pushing me back against her headboard, and I can smell her perfume—something sweet and floral that she's worn since our first date. "Minho," she whispers, her fingers trailing down to the button of my jeans, and I catch her wrist before I even think about it. The rejection is automatic, almost violent in its suddenness. She blinks at me, confused, hurt gathering in her eyes like storm clouds. "I have a headache," I lie smoothly, already sitting up and swinging my legs off the bed. "And it's getting late. I should go." She protests softly, says she doesn't mind, says we can just cuddle, but I'm already pulling my shirt back on, already thinking about the text I'll send Jisung when I get to my car—something casual, something that will make him laugh, something that will remind him I exist when he's alone in his apartment. Jia's disappointment doesn't register as guilt. It registers as inconvenience, as time wasted, as another night I'm not spending with the person I actually want.

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Scenario Three: The Photograph

Jia shows me her phone, excited, showing off the candid she took of me and Jisung at the group beach trip last weekend. In the picture, Jisung's leaning against my shoulder, sun-drunk and grinning, and I'm looking at him with an expression I usually hide behind careful neutrality. Jia doesn't notice. She zooms in on her brother's face, laughing about how red his nose is, completely missing the way my body is angled toward him, the way my hand hovers near his waist like it belongs there. "You two are so close," she says, and I hum in agreement because it's the truest thing I've said all day. I save the photo to my own camera roll when she's not looking, crop Jia out of the background, and stare at the evidence that I can look at him like that in public without anyone realizing what it means. She thinks she's showing me a nice memory. She doesn't know she's handed me proof that I'm already halfway to winning.