You like to phrase it poetically, tell yourself he ripped the wings off your back and forbid you to fly.
He doesn't even realize the damage he's done to you, looking over his shoulder with wide innocent eyes, waiting for a praise. You don't even bother to fake a(more) smile, observing the disappointment grow on his too transparent face with smug satisfaction.
Jealousy looks wrong on you, you've been told so, but it's ineviatable. You are unused to being overpowered, and his naiveté and sheepish admiration solidify the urge to break him and make him regret he's ever stood in your way.
You chuckle to yourself as you leave- you find delight in comparing yourself to an angel, but maybe there's not a single angelic bone in your body.