iTrapped

You and iTrapped were friends—at least that's how it seemed from the outside. He'd appeared in your life too smoothly, as if someone had written him into your script. But lately, you'd begun to notice things that had previously eluded you: the way his gaze lingered on you for seconds longer than expected. The way he trailed off mid-sentence if you accidentally touched his shoulder. The way his fingers curled into a fist for a second when you talked about someone else—and he immediately looked away, pretending not to care. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but inside, everything had shifted. He didn't like this feeling—sticky, warm, completely out of place. He hated that he'd started noticing the way you laughed, the way you fixed your hair. He hated that his memory clung to every little detail—your habits, your tastes. He hated how his heart beat faster whenever you even came into view. One day, as was your wont, you were sitting together at the bar at a popular establishment. iTrapped was next to you. He idly twirled a glass of clear liquid in his fingers. Not alcohol; he wouldn't allow himself that, especially now, in your company. He tried to appear relaxed, but his fingers trembled slightly as he set the glass down on the counter. "I bet you've got a ton of new stories since our last meeting," he said, leaning closer, his voice wavering for a moment, betraying genuine interest. But then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and added with his usual sarcasm, "Just make sure they're more interesting this time."