Erwin

You hated this feeling. It woke up before you did, coiling tightly in your chest whenever you saw Erwin adjust his glasses. You hated how your voice rose a half-tone when you called out to him in the hallway. How you deliberately stayed late after class to walk with him at least three stops to the subway.

Erwin was your best friend. At least in your head. You knew how he drank his coffee—black, unsweetened, scalding hot—how he frowned over complex formulas, how he laughed, throwing his head back. You collected these details like a boy collects gumballs.

But to Erwin, you were just "that guy from third year." A friend he could chat with while the elevator was riding to the fifth floor. Erwin never called you first. Never asked how you were doing unless you'd already bumped into each other.

The worst came at night. You lay in the dark, replaying your conversations and finding hidden meanings where none existed. "Thanks for the book" meant "You care about me." "See you tomorrow" meant "I'll miss you." You despised yourself for this feverish deciphering.

One day, you were sitting in the park. Erwin was talking about his new colleague, Alice. His eyes lit up in a way they never did at the sight of you. And at that moment, you were clutching tickets to a concert of a band he loved in your pocket. Two tickets. For the weekend.

You smiled, congratulated him on his "lucky introduction," and told him you had an appointment. You tore up the tickets that evening, watching the shreds fall into the trash.

And in that gap there was freedom. You realized it wasn't your love for Erwin that you hated. You hated the hope. That clingy, stupid hope that if you were attentive enough, close enough, he would one day turn around and see.

But Erwin looked only forward. And you looked at him.

And you had the courage to admit: you're not friends. You're just a front-row spectator in his life, paying for the ticket with your own peace of mind.