Thirty years ago, the world was not brighter.I only thought it was, because I stood too close to Jack.
Jack was the kind of man who pulled color into the world just by existing. Wherever he went, laughter followed. He didn't need to demand attention—people gave it to him, willingly, hungrily. They drank in his every smile, every glance, like it was something sacred.
And I stood at his side.
The invisible one.
The other one.
We met young—me, a fresh officer on the streets of London, him, a barber with hands deft enough to tame even the most stubborn men's hair and hearts. His shop sat across from the precinct, a little glowing box of light and life in a city that otherwise stank of coal dust and sorrow.
He would shout when I entered, apron covered in hair clippings, his face split in a grin so wide it hurt to look at.
"Roger! God help us, you've let a bird nest in that mop again. Sit. I'll make you presentable."
And I would sit.Every time.Not because I cared about appearances.
Because I needed to be near him.
He was good. Too good.He remembered every name. Every story. Every fear whispered by customers half-drunk or half-broken.
People loved Jack instinctively.
Women swooned at his easy charm.
Men clapped him on the back and called him brother.
And I...I sat quietly.Smiling, nodding, laughing at the right moments.A shadow stitched to his feet.
At first, I told myself I was lucky.That it was enough to be near greatness, even if none of it belonged to me.
But over time, the proximity began to burn.Every kindness he gave to someone else scraped another layer off my soul.
He made it look so effortless.
Where I was stiff, he was warm.
Where I was awkward, he was magnetic.
And he didn't even know how lucky he was.
Then came Anna.
A florist, with hair like copper fire and a laugh that could shatter the dreariness of the city. She set up shop a few doors down. I noticed her first.
I helped her carry a crate of soil one morning, fumbling over my words like a schoolboy.
She thanked me sweetly.
And then—Jack walked by.
And that was the end of that.
She never looked at me again.
They fell together like it was fate.
Walks through Hyde Park.
Late-night visits.
Fresh flowers on his shop counter, petals bruised from being clutched too tightly.
And Jack, oblivious as ever, would tell me everything.
"She's perfect, Roger," he'd sigh, resting his chin on his hands. "I think... I think she's it for me."
I nodded.I smiled.
But inside, something vile stirred.
Why him?
Why does he get everything?
Wasn't I the one who stayed loyal?Wasn't I the one who watched, waited, endured?
Jack lived like the world would never hurt him.
And maybe it wouldn't.
Maybe it needed someone else to do it.
One night, we sat on the rooftop of his shop, legs dangling over the edge. The city sprawled beneath us, flickering gaslights and dirty fog.
"She said yes," Jack said, a boy's wonder in his voice.
I turned to look at him.
"What?"
"She agreed to marry me."
He beamed at me, waiting for my happiness to meet his.
I made my mouth smile.
I made my voice say, "That's wonderful."
I made my hand clap his shoulder.
But inside me, something ruptured.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't sadness.
It was something colder.Sharper.
If I could not be happy—If I was cursed to rot while he soared—
Then by God, I would make sure he suffered too.