The man I’ve been in love with for ten years saw my roommate during a video call and fell for her instantly. Then he asked me to help him win her over. On the phone, his voice was as deep and captivating as ever. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, Lila. Please, help me.” But there wasn’t a trace of pleading in his tone. It was as if he already knew I wouldn’t say no. That’s how it’s always been between us—he’s always been so sure of me. Logan and my roommate were kissing. Their lips locked, their bodies close, completely lost in each other. I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold, feeling like someone had reached into my chest and torn my heart in half. I should’ve known this would happen the moment I agreed to help him pursue her. I should’ve prepared myself for it. But seeing it with my own eyes? It broke me. They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t even notice me standing there. “Come over to my place tonight?” Logan’s low, husky voice pierced the quiet night. His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and my heart sank into an icy abyss. So, they were already at that stage? My roommate playfully smacked his arm, laughing softly. “What are you talking about? I promised Lila I’d help her with her thesis tonight!” They leaned in closer, their foreheads touching as they exchanged words I couldn’t quite hear, their intimacy painfully obvious even from a distance. When she finally went upstairs, Logan turned around—and saw me. “Lila?” His smile vanished instantly. I stiffened, avoiding his gaze as I fought to keep my emotions in check. Without a word, I turned and headed back to my dorm. The scene I’d just witnessed was too much. The bitterness, the jealousy, and the helplessness wrapped around my chest, suffocating me. I’d been by Logan’s side as his friend for ten years. In all that time, I’d never seen him show even the slightest interest in any woman. To me, he was always distant, rational—so much so that I sometimes wondered if he even saw me as a girl, or just a genderless companion. But tonight… Tonight was the first time I’d ever seen him like this. So full of emotion. And for who? For someone he’d only known for ten days. Ten days. Meanwhile, I’ve loved him for ten years—my entire youth consumed by this silent, unrequited love. When we were in high school, I failed my college entrance exam and couldn’t get into the same university as him. I spent an extra year retaking the test, only to mess up my application and end up in a different city. Throughout college, we barely kept in touch. Now, Logan was just starting to settle into his career, and I was drowning in my final-year thesis. We spoke even less. Every time I tried to visit him, he’d shut me down without hesitation. “Lila, I’m busy,” he’d say. Sometimes, I’d call him on video, desperate for some kind of connection. But no matter how much I wanted to talk, he always had something else to do. I knew I had no right to complain. To him, I was just a friend he’d known for a long time. Ten days ago, my roommate borrowed my phone to take a picture and accidentally stumbled upon a photo of Logan in my gallery. Her finger paused for a moment. Then she smiled. “Who’s this? He’s good-looking. Do you know him, Lila?” I saw the spark of interest in her eyes. I didn’t answer, mumbling some excuse before leaving the room. Even though I knew the chances of them meeting were slim, I couldn’t sleep that night. The fear of losing him—of losing even the fantasy of him—was overwhelming. My roommate was the kind of girl everyone noticed. She was the “it” girl of our department, with a face that was both strikingly beautiful and effortlessly alluring. Her presence alone was enough to draw attention, and her aloof, hard-to-get attitude only made her more desirable. In all four years of college, no one had managed to capture her interest. Until now. All it took was one picture of Logan. The next day, I finally worked up the courage to confess my feelings to Logan. But before I could, he called me. And during that video call, he saw my roommate in the background. I’ll never forget the way his eyes lit up. The way his sharp features softened, his usual guarded expression melting into something I’d never seen before. It was obvious. He’d fallen for her at first sight. The day after the call, Logan called me again. “Lila,” he said, his voice as calm and steady as ever. “I need your help. I really like her.” It was the first time he’d ever asked me for anything. But there was no vulnerability in his voice. No hesitation. He already knew I wouldn’t refuse him. That realization hit me like a wave, the bitterness spreading through every corner of my body. But what could I do? I couldn’t stop him from liking someone else, just like I couldn’t stop myself from loving him. So I said yes. I agreed to help him win over my roommate. What followed was inevitable. I introduced them. They exchanged numbers. And despite always being “too busy” for me, Logan suddenly had all the time in the world for her. He even took three days off work just to visit her. Today was their first official date. And judging by what I just saw, things had clearly progressed faster than I’d expected. When I stepped back into the dorm, my roommate’s voice greeted me. “Lila,” she said, her tone light and cheerful, “Logan and I are officially together.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I replied softly, forcing my voice to stay steady. I returned to my desk, sat down, and opened my laptop to work on my thesis. It took me several tries to type out a single word—”I.” Behind me, my roommate’s voice carried a hint of a smile. “It’s all thanks to you, our favorite matchmaker.” My fingers froze on the keyboard, tightening involuntarily. My chest ached, and my heart clenched so hard it felt like it might shatter. Yes, I had brought them together. It was me who told Logan every little thing my roommate liked—her favorite topics, the kind of humor she enjoyed. It was me who assured my roommate that Logan had never been interested in anyone else, that his feelings for her were rare and genuine. For the past ten days, I watched Logan go out of his way to care for her while she smiled every time she talked about him. I witnessed them fall for each other, piece by painful piece. Late at night, I’d bury my face in my pillow, trying to block out the sound of Logan’s voice messages from her phone: “Be good. Don’t stay up too late. Sweet dreams.” His tone was warm, teasing, with a hint of husky affection—a kind of tenderness I’d never experienced from him. And in that moment, I realized something devastating: I regretted everything. I even thought about lying to him. If I’d told Logan that my roommate already liked someone else, his pride would’ve made him give up immediately. Maybe then I’d still have a chance. “Speaking of which—” My roommate’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She had walked up behind me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a playful hug. “Logan and I decided to treat you to dinner tomorrow as a thank-you. You’ll come, right?” My breath caught in my throat, and instinctively, I wanted to refuse. But she didn’t give me the chance. “Logan’s heading back to work the day after tomorrow, and after we graduate next month, I’ll be moving in with him. This might be one of the last times we all get to hang out together.” Her head rested lightly against my neck, her breath warm against my skin. Her voice was soft, almost coaxing. “It was his idea, too.” … If I still had even the faintest sliver of hope left last night, it was gone now. The next evening, we went to a hotpot restaurant near campus. The broth bubbled and steamed, filling the room with warmth, but I felt none of it. Logan sat across from me, peeling shrimp for my roommate. His head was slightly lowered, his long fingers deftly removing the shells with ease. Every movement was precise, practiced, and deliberate. Suddenly, I remembered something. Logan hated peeling shrimp. He couldn’t stand the slimy, sticky texture—it always disgusted him. Last year, I’d traveled four hours by bus to visit him on his birthday. I brought a cake and clumsily cooked a full dinner for him, even burning my hand in the process. When he saw the red, swollen burn on my hand, his expression grew complicated. “Lila,” he said, his tone flat, “if you don’t know how to cook, then don’t.” Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand and started applying ointment to the burn, his touch careful and gentle. It was one of the only times he’d ever been so kind to me. I remember looking at the plate of boiled shrimp on the table and impulsively asking, “My hand hurts. Will you peel some shrimp for me?” He frowned immediately, his tone sharp. “You know I have a thing about that.” That single sentence shifted the mood entirely. Normally, I wouldn’t have cared, but that day… for some reason, tears welled up in my eyes. The frustration, the disappointment—it all spilled over. In the end, I forced myself to peel the shrimp, ignoring the pain in my blistered hand. Logan sat silently the entire time, watching me. He opened his mouth a few times to say something, but nothing ever came out. Pulled back to the present, I watched as he placed the peeled shrimp onto my roommate’s plate. Then he neatly wiped his hands with a wet napkin and glanced at me. Our eyes met. And in that moment, I understood. He was doing this on purpose. He was showing me, in the most deliberate way possible, that I didn’t matter to him. The scar on my hand from that burn had long since faded, but it felt like he’d reopened the wound tonight, pouring salt into it for good measure. Logan had always known how I felt about him. He knew I didn’t see him as just a friend. This dinner, this entire display—it was his way of making it clear. Stop hoping. Stop dreaming. Don’t interfere with his life anymore. A sharp pain stabbed at my chest, and I lowered my head, avoiding his gaze. My hands trembled as I gripped my chopsticks. The dinner dragged on forever. No matter how much they flirted, I kept my head down, barely saying a word. But then, a sudden commotion broke out nearby. I looked up to see a flustered guy apologizing to Logan. Apparently, he’d lost a dare and had to ask the most beautiful girl in the room for her number—unaware that my roommate already had a boyfriend. Logan’s expression darkened, but he kept his composure in the crowded restaurant. The guy stammered out a few more apologies before retreating, clearly embarrassed. I turned to glance at my roommate. She was as stunning as ever, her flushed cheeks and glistening forehead only adding to her charm. Her lips, slightly swollen from the spice, looked impossibly soft. People around us kept sneaking glances at her, their admiration barely concealed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall figure making his way toward us. A small smile tugged at my lips. For some reason, the knot in my chest loosened slightly. Maybe youth is about taking risks, even when you know better. I glanced at Logan. Sure enough, his expression had grown even darker. Curious now, I put down my chopsticks and sat back, ready to watch the scene unfold. But to my surprise, the guy didn’t stop in front of my roommate. Instead, he walked right past her and came to a halt in front of me. I blinked, startled. He looked directly at me, his eyes bright and sincere. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice a little nervous but steady. “Can I ask you out?” I froze, not sure how to react. Instinctively, I turned to look at Logan. For a split second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes. And for the first time all night, his expression grew even colder.
For a moment, my mind raced with memories and thoughts. Over the past ten years of silently loving Logan, there were times when I wavered. I had watched him reject confessions from other girls with such cold precision, leaving no room for misunderstanding or hope. So I buried my feelings deep, choosing to stay by his side as a kind, considerate friend. But no matter how much I gave, he never responded. His indifference and restraint were unwavering. The pain of wanting something I could never have, the exhaustion of loving someone who didn’t love me back—it all weighed on me, crushing me bit by bit. When I failed to get into the same university as Logan, everything I’d been holding in finally reached its breaking point. For the first time, I thought about giving up. On the day of our farewell dinner, he didn’t show up. After it ended, one of my classmates confessed to me. I turned him down, but he still insisted on walking me home. I hesitated for a moment. Walking home meant passing by Logan’s house. For some reason, I agreed. The moonlight that night was beautiful. The classmate walked beside me, trying his best to hold a conversation. I answered him politely, but as soon as Logan’s house came into view, I stopped in my tracks. Looking up, I saw him standing on the balcony, watching us with a cold, unreadable expression. Later that night, after I got home and showered, I lay in bed scrolling through my phone. That’s when I saw it: someone had filmed the classmate’s confession and posted it in our group chat. The video was too noisy to make out the words, but the final shot showed me leaving with him. The chat erupted with teasing comments from people who hadn’t been there. And then, Logan messaged me: “Do you want to retake the year?” I instantly understood the implication behind his words. He wanted me to attend the same university as him. He didn’t spell it out, but to me, it felt like a signal—a glimmer of hope. My heart soared, even as it ached. He always seemed to do this: letting me build up disappointment, only to pull me back with a single moment of hope. Now, sitting across from him at dinner, watching him with his new girlfriend, I couldn’t help but wonder: What signal was he sending me now? Before I could figure it out, my roommate shifted in her seat, breaking my line of sight. She reached for Logan’s hand, intertwining her fingers with his. For a brief second, Logan seemed startled. Then he looked down at her, his expression softening, his sharp edges melting away. In that moment, I felt it—the last tiny flicker of hope inside me extinguished completely. But instead of despair, I felt an unfamiliar calm settle over me. I lowered my gaze, pulling my focus away from him, and looked at the boy sitting across from me instead. He wasn’t expecting me to look at him, and when our eyes met, he tensed, clearly nervous. Then, as if on instinct, he repeated the same clumsy question from earlier: “C-Can I… can I ask you out?” The group of onlookers burst into laughter. Someone who knew him teased, “Hey, Noah, aren’t you the one confessing? Why are you asking her to chase you instead?” His face turned bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. “I-I… I didn’t mean it like that…” he stammered. “Sure,” I interrupted him. The room quieted. This time, I didn’t even glance at Logan to see his reaction. Instead, I kept my eyes on Noah. He froze for a moment, staring at me in disbelief. His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, and I could see the flush spreading from his ears to his neck. Unable to stop myself, I smiled. “Sure,” I repeated. I quickly discovered that Noah was the kind of person who blushed easily. After I said yes, he turned so red I thought he might pass out. Without giving me a chance to protest, he grabbed my hand and led me out of the restaurant. We ended up at a nearby dessert shop, where he ordered way too many sweets and placed them in front of me. I stared at him, bewildered, as he fidgeted with his spoon, unable to meet my eyes. After a moment, he finally looked up and gave me a shy smile. “I noticed you didn’t eat much at dinner,” he said. “And… you know, people say dessert makes you feel better.” I looked at him, startled. That dinner—every second of it had been suffocating for me, but somehow, Noah had noticed. He’d seen how uncomfortable I was, how hard I was trying to hide my sadness, and he’d stepped in to pull me away from it all. Something in my chest shifted. It was small, but it was there. And as I took a bite of the dessert, I realized something else: He was right. Sweet things do make you feel better. Later, we walked around the track field, the sunset painting the sky in fiery shades of red and orange. Noah hesitated for a moment before nervously taking my hand. I glanced at him, catching a glimpse of his side profile—his pale skin, the sharp line of his jaw, and his ears still tinged pink from embarrassment. For the first time in a long while, my heart felt light. That feeling lasted until Logan texted me later that night. “Where are you?” I didn’t reply. And he didn’t follow up. I exhaled deeply, as if I were releasing years of pent-up frustration. Noah and I stayed out late. When I finally returned to my dorm, I threw myself into my thesis, editing and formatting until it was ready to send to my professor. Only after hitting “send” did I check my phone again. At 11 p.m., Noah had texted me: “Do you have time tomorrow?” I hesitated for a moment before responding: “I do.” His reply came almost instantly: “Great! Goodnight!” I glanced at the clock. It was already 3 a.m. I stared at his message for a while, a small smile tugging at my lips. As I got ready for bed, I noticed my roommate’s bed was still empty. Her blanket was neatly folded. She hadn’t come back tonight.
The next morning, I slept in until ten. After getting up and washing my face, I stood in front of the mirror to do my makeup. As I applied my lipstick, I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. My roommate was back. I stared at myself in the mirror, my expression calm, my eyes steady. The last time I caught her and Logan kissing, it felt like my heart had been ripped apart, like my body had been broken into pieces, crushed, and painstakingly put back together again. But last night, when I realized they were together—probably doing something far more intimate than kissing—I didn’t feel that same earth-shattering pain. There was a dull ache, yes, but nothing unbearable. In fact, I’d fallen asleep quickly and slept through the night without dreaming. I wasn’t sure if this meant I was finally letting Logan go, finally letting myself go. But I knew it was a step in the right direction. I pressed my lips together to even out the lipstick just as my roommate’s tired voice broke the silence: “He’s gone back to the office.” I turned toward her and noticed how pale she looked—exhausted, completely drained. I stared at her in surprise, reaching out to feel her forehead, but she turned her face away, avoiding my touch. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. I frowned. She looked straight at me, her voice strained. “I slept with him.”
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