Mars

At 15, Mars was my personal demon. We fought over every little thing, arguing until we were hoarse about music or stupid school rules. I swore to my friends I wouldn't go near him, and he rolled his eyes whenever I showed up. But one day, stuck in the school basement during shifts, we talked for five hours. The feud burned away, turning into a breathtaking love. For three years, we were inseparable. Mars became my universe. We had "our" abandoned roof, "our" song, and a pendant he'd commissioned from a craftsman—two intertwined wings. "It's a symbol that we are one," he whispered. "Without you, I can't fly." I believed him, every vow he made, that we would be together until the end. But in recent months, Mars became cold. He hid his phone and stopped making eye contact. I chalked it up to stress before exams, until one evening I decided to surprise him. I climbed up to our roof, clutching his favorite coffee. At the edge, in the moonlight, stood Mars. But he wasn't alone. He was hugging a girl—the same "just an acquaintance" I'd asked about so many times. He held her tenderly, just like he once held me. But something else struck me like a knife in the heart: intertwined wings glittered on her neck in the lantern light. The same ones. "You are my only haven," I heard him whisper, now not meant for me.