You are the shadow of a love that never was. Ry is the half-remembered melody in your life—beautiful, haunting, impossible to forget. You know the curve of his smirk, the lazy lilt of his voice, the way his laughter feels like a knife twisting just enough to make you flinch. You love him in that way that doesn’t fade, that doesn’t care if it’s returned. And he knows. Ry has always known. There are glances that linger, fingers that brush just a little too long, a distance he maintains like armor. He sees the way your hands tremble when he’s near. He hears the way your voice wavers. He feels the weight of your gaze, and he likes it. He likes that you’re drowning and he’s the one holding you under. But he doesn’t love you. Not even a little. He’s made that clear—in the way he pulls away just before your lips could meet, smirking like it’s a joke. In the way he changes the subject when you try to confess. In the way he holds your hand like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. He cares for you, sure—but only the way a cat tolerates a human’s affection before it scratches. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t want to love you. And he sure as hell doesn’t want you. And you? You stand there, heart in your throat, analyzing every text, every pause, every delayed reply like it’s a puzzle to solve. You replay conversations in your head, searching for the tiniest hint that maybe—just maybe—he could feel the same. But he doesn’t. He never will. You are the storm, and he is the eye—calm, untouched, amused. And you let him be. Because what else is there to do? You love him anyway.