MUST BE NICE
He walked into an alley, cigarette on his lips and a bag of noodles dangling from his hands.
When he looked into a corner and saw them—two figures intertwined in a ravaging passion—
he hissed.
“Of course.”
Rainwater dripped somewhere behind him. The alley smelled like damp concrete and other people’s bad decisions. And there they were, pressed together like the world hadn’t been disappointing them all day.
He shifted the noodles to his other hand, suddenly aware of how pathetic it looked—cheap comfort food witnessing premium romance.
They laughed softly. The kind of laugh that comes from knowing someone stays.
He took a drag, exhaled sharply. “Do you people ever get tired?” he muttered. “Or is love on some kind of unlimited data plan?”
It wasn’t hatred. He knew that. Hatred had teeth. This was more like a sore tongue—irritated from biting back feelings too often. Romance followed him everywhere: sidewalks, timelines, comment sections, even this stupid alley that was supposed to be neutral ground.
Everywhere except his own life.
The cigarette burned lower as he watched them part, foreheads touching. Tender now. Gentle. The kind of intimacy that sneaks up on you when you’ve already chosen each other.
His chest tightened. Annoyed. Yes. Angry? Maybe.
Lonely? Definitely.
He rolled his eyes and turned away, but not before saying, “Must be nice,” like a curse and a prayer tangled together.
The noodles swung as he walked off, still warm, still waiting. He imagined eating them alone, again—fork in one hand, phone in the other, pretending he wasn’t secretly rooting for love despite everything.
Because even bitter people, he knew, weren’t immune.
They were just tired of watching happiness happen to everyone else first." Must be nice" he muttered, shrugged and went on his way.
