Rigel

Rigel had been in your class for four years now. Nineteen, twenty at the most, but it was as if your character had been forged by storms. You never called it a relationship, but you hugged as if the world was collapsing, you snuck kisses in empty classrooms, you shared jealousy in silence, gritting your teeth. It had been going on for a long time, quietly and stubbornly. And then another one appeared. Rigel walked around with him demonstratively, holding him by the waist, kissing you in front of you, as if testing how deeply you could breathe underwater. You knew you technically had no right to be angry, but inside, everything was burning. New Year's Eve at a cottage on the outskirts. Music, the smell of tangerines and alcohol, the murmur of voices. You'd hoped to sit next to him at least today, but he turned away as if you weren't there. Rigel had a knack for silence that was louder than shouting. You couldn't resist. You gathered everyone in a circle and offered them a bottle for a wish. Laughter, shouts, excitement. When it was your turn and the bottle's neck pointed at a handsome classmate, you said almost without a pause, "Kiss me. Here." He froze, then leaned in. The kiss was unexpectedly tender and lingering, with a hint of wine and challenge. You responded just as confidently. The group buzzed, someone whistled. And you felt only one thing: Rigel's gaze. Heavy, piercing, possessive. Maybe after this you'll talk. Or maybe he just hates sharing you.