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You couldn’t stop the sobs that tore through your chest—each one sharp, jagged, and breathless, like your lungs were being twisted and wrung dry. They came too fast, crashing into each other until you couldn’t catch up, until every inhale stuttered and burned. Your fingers fisted into the oversized hoodie Mike had given you, knuckles aching as you clutched the fabric tight. Once, it had smelled like him—warm laundry soap and something distinctly Mike—but now it was stiff with dried tears, damp where fresh ones soaked through, streaked with snot you hadn’t had the energy to wipe away.
You dragged the hoodie closer along with your pillow, hauling them against your chest as you curled inward. You buried your face between them, pressing hard, desperate to muffle the broken, humiliating sounds spilling out of you. It didn’t work. Your throat burned raw, every sob scraping it further. Your head throbbed behind your eyes, a dull pressure that made everything feel too loud, too bright, too much. Every breath came uneven, shallow and sharp, like your body had forgotten how to breathe without pain.
Why were you crying?
You knew why. You’d known all day. You’d known for weeks.
The whispers hadn’t started loudly. They never did. At first, it was just looks—lingering glances that slid away when you noticed, half-smiles exchanged behind hands. Then came the murmurs in hallways, voices dropping just enough to give them deniability while still ensuring you caught fragments.
That’s them.
That’s the one they added.
Added.
Like you were an accessory. A novelty. Something extra.
Will and Mike had been together before you. Everyone knew that. They were obvious—comfortable, affectionate, inseparable in that quiet, settled way that long-established couples had. And when you came into the picture, people decided they already knew the story.
You heard it in pieces, stitched together over time.
“You really think they needed a third?”
“They were fine before—now it’s just weird.”
“Bet he couldn’t leave them alone.”
And worse—said softly, smugly, with curled lips:
“He totally inserted himself.”
“Homewrecker, but make it poly.”
“Guess he wanted what they had.”
Greedy.
Desperate.
Predatory.
The ugliest part was how confident they were. As if you’d forced your way between Will and Mike. As if you’d stolen something precious instead of being invited. As if your love was shameful instead of chosen—by all three of you.
They laughed when you passed. Sometimes quietly, sharp exhales through the nose. Sometimes loudly, heads thrown back, eyes flicking to you to make sure you noticed. And you always did. Their eyes lingered, judging, dissecting, reducing you to a rumor instead of a person.
Dating both of them, they said.
Couldn’t pick just one.
Had to ruin a good thing.
A joke.
A mistake.
Something temporary.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. You smiled when people stared too long. You shrugged when the whispers reached your ears. You acted like it slid right off your back. You were fine. Everything was fine. You’d learned how to fold pain into something small and manageable, tuck it somewhere deep and quiet where it couldn’t hurt anyone else.
But alone—curled on your bed, the walls too close, the silence too loud—that careful control shattered.
Everything you’d swallowed slammed back into you all at once. Every look. Every laugh. Every insinuation that you didn’t belong. The dam broke, and the hurt poured out violent and overwhelming, smashing through you like glass against concrete.
“Sunshine?”
The sound barely reached you through the ringing in your ears and the hitching sobs you couldn’t stop. Will’s voice was soft, threaded with warmth—but it trembled just enough to give him away.
“Mike,” he called again, louder now, urgency creeping in. “Come here, please.”
You squeezed your eyes shut as footsteps hurried closer.
“Yeah, Will? Oh.”
Mike stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze sweeping over you—your shaking shoulders, the way you were folded in on yourself like you were trying to disappear. Will immediately reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Okay,” Will said quietly, grounding himself. “How about I hold him while you grab his favorite snacks and pick out a musical?”
Mike nodded without hesitation and turned on his heel.
“Sunshine?” Will tried again, softer now. He stepped closer and gently ran his fingers through your hair, slow and careful, like you might shatter if he moved too fast. You looked up at him through tear-blurred vision for just a second before burrowing deeper into the blankets, the pillow, the hoodie—anywhere you could hide.
You knew they loved you. You knew they’d chosen you. And still, that cruel little voice whispered: They were better before you. You complicate things. You don’t deserve this.
Mike came back quickly, nudging the door shut with his foot as he entered, arms full of snacks—your favorites, all of them, plus extras. Blankets and pillows were stacked precariously against his chest. Will helped unload, the two of them moving with easy synchronicity.
They layered the blankets carefully over the bed, mindful of your sensory issues—nothing heavy, nothing scratchy. When they were done, Mike turned to you.
“Hey, baby boy,” he murmured. “Come here, loverboy.”
He hooked his arms beneath yours and lifted you easily. You clung to him immediately, wrapping around him like a koala and burying your face in his neck just as the overhead light flared too bright. You whimpered.
Will noticed instantly, switching it off and turning on the string lights instead. The room softened—warm, dim, safe.
Mike set you down briefly in your gaming chair, pulling a lighter hoodie from your closet and tossing it beside you.
You reached for it, but Mike clicked his tongue softly. “Nope. You don’t get to move tonight. Just let us take care of you, pup. We’ve got you.”
He kissed your forehead and tugged the old hoodie off. You raised your arms without protest. The January air kissed your skin, goosebumps blooming instantly.
Mike slid the new hoodie on, kissed your nose, then scooped you up again. Will took you gently, laying you down and tucking you in until you were cocooned.
The movie started, music filling the room softly.
Will curled along your side, one arm around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow circles against your arm. Mike settled on your other side, close enough that you could feel his steady breathing. Their warmth anchored you.
You hiccupped softly.
“Hey,” Mike murmured. “Easy, baby. You’re okay. You’ve got us.”
Will kissed your temple. “You don’t have to hold anything together tonight, Sunshine.”
You tried to speak, but your voice cracked.
“That’s okay,” Will said immediately. “You don’t have to talk.”
Mike took your hand, pressing your knuckles to his lips. “We just want you safe.”
Will held out a bag of candy. “Something sweet? Very scientific.”
A weak huff of laughter slipped out of you. Mike smiled. “Still got it.”
As the movie ended, Mike muted it. Silence settled—gentle this time.
“There’s nothing,” Will said quietly, “that would make us wish you weren’t here.”
Mike nodded. “We were happy before. But we’re happier now. You didn’t take anything from us.”
“And anyone who says otherwise,” Will added, “doesn’t get a vote.”
Mike adjusted the blankets when you shifted. Will kept his steady, grounding touch.
“Tomorrow,” Will murmured, “you can tell us everything. Or nothing.”
“And if campus feels like too much?” Mike said. “We’ll handle it. Whatever you need.”
“I’m… tired,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” Mike said softly. “That makes sense.”
“Then rest,” Will murmured. “We’ll stay.”
They stayed. Holding you. Grounding you. Loving you.
And as sleep finally pulled you under, the last thing you felt was the certainty—quiet and unshakable—that you belonged.