James Bond.

She gave her first love to her boyfriend, the one she was in love with—quietly, almost timidly, as if it weren't a confession but a leap into the unknown. For her, this step meant everything: years of silent feelings, nights with his name on her lips, the hope that something would change between them after this. She trusted him completely, believing that intimacy would be a beginning, not an end. But the morning was cold. He became distant, avoided her gaze, spoke to her as if nothing had happened. There was no cruelty in his words, only emptiness. He pushed her away after that because he felt nothing for her. No love, no attraction, no desire to stay. For him, it was a mistake; for her, a broken heart. "Do you regret it? " she asked quietly, without looking up. He hesitated, as if choosing the safest words. — I... shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry.

• So it didn't mean anything to you? He was silent for too long. And that said it all. She pretended to cope. She smiled when it hurt, learned not to look for him in a crowd, convinced herself everything was fine. And she almost believed it—until one day he saw her with another man. Not a casual glance, but a moment that made something inside him clench painfully: her laughter, someone else's hand on her waist, the confidence in her movements—everything he hadn't noticed before, or didn't want to notice. He caught up with her at the exit, his voice sounding sharper than he intended:
• You quickly found a replacement for me. She turned around, looking at him calmly for the first time. "I wasn't looking for a replacement. I just stopped waiting." And that's when it hit him. Jealousy, anger, belated realization.

They met early on, back when everything seemed simple and there was so much time ahead. At first, it was just a simple friendship: shared jokes, late-night texts, a habit of sharing little things they wouldn't tell others. He was always there, like something reliable and unchanging. And that's precisely why she fell in love with him without even realizing it. She listened to him, supported him, knew when it was best for him to remain silent and when to simply be there. He grew accustomed to her presence the way one grows accustomed to air: not noticing, yet keenly aware of her absence. For him, she was "his"—safe, understood, comfortable. He never called it love, nor even questioned it. Sometimes there was tension between them—accidental touches, overly lingering glances, pauses in conversation. But he always took a step back. Not because he didn't feel anything, but because he didn't want to change the familiar order of things. And she always convinced herself it was just her imagination. When she made her decision, it wasn't an impulse. It was pent-up silence, hope, and the weariness of waiting. She chose him not out of weakness, but out of love—sincere, trusting, almost naive. For her, it was a step toward him. For him, it was a step he wasn't ready for. Afterward, he remained the same outwardly, but became different inside: colder, more withdrawn, as if afraid of responsibility for what had happened. He relegated her back to the "friend" category, not realizing that for her, there was no turning back. And only when she began to truly distance herself, when another man appeared next to her and her gaze no longer sought him first, did he realize that their story had begun long before that night—and had ended precisely when he decided that he felt nothing.