"Ryder?" I said, barely audible, barely standing.
His face drained of color. His mouth opened—but Mira's voice cut through.
"Why is she here? What the hell? Is theresomethinggoing on?"
"No, no" he said quickly. Too quickly. His face hardened. "Don't be ridiculous, Mira. She's just a client."
My world cracked.
"Are yousure?" she said, eyes narrowed. "Becausesheseems to think there's something."
"She's delusional," he said, with a shrug. "She probably made up an entire relationship in her head just because I was nice to her."
"And look at her," Mira sneered. "Coming here dressed like that. Who's she trying to impress?"
I couldn't breathe.
I turned and fled. Each movement felt like glass in my chest. Like the floor had dropped out from under me. Like every quiet kiss, every midnight word, had been fed to me like poison disguised as honey.
I thought I was an exception. I thought I was seen.
But I wasn't. I was a joke. A punchline with trembling hands. My throat closed with every breath. I wanted to scream. I wanted to collapse. I wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole.
All those nights, all those whispered words. His fingers in my hair. His body curled around mine. His soft promises. All of it—
Lies.Convenient lies.
I walked until my legs ached. Until the city became just noise and color and motion—cars honking in the distance, strangers brushing past me, laughter from somewhere I couldn't place. I walked until the tears I didn't want to cry slipped down anyway, quiet and hot, like they were ashamed of existing.
I didn't wipe them away.
The world felt too sharp. Like if I breathed too deep, it might slice me open.
My coat clung to my skin. The lace underneath it felt like a cruel joke—like I'd tried to become someone beautiful and the universe had laughed in my face. Each step home was a slowunraveling. Of hope. Of delusion. Of the version of him I thought was real.
When I finally made it through the door, I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want to see the apartment where I'd imagined him living someday. I didn't want to see the framed photo he took of me last fall, or the hoodie he left behind that I wore like armor.
I went straight to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and stared at myself in the mirror.
The mascara had run. My lips were trembling. My eyes looked hollow—like someone had scooped me out and left the shell behind.
And the lace. God, the lace. That black, delicate fabric that once made me feel powerful, maybe even a little brave—it clung to my body like shame. Like a costume I had no right to wear. I stripped it off like it was on fire. Yanked it down, tore at the straps, the hooks, my hands shaking so hard I nearly fell. I threw it straight into the trash. Didn't fold it. Didn't hesitate.
Because it didn't make me feel beautiful anymore.
It made me feelstupid.
And then I curled into myself on the bathroom floor, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight, like I could somehow hold myself together. I didn't sob anymore. I didn't scream. I just... sat there. Numb. Empty.
Because what he said wasn't just cruel.
It was true.
Or at least, that's what some part of me believed. The part that had always believed I wasn't good enough. The part that remembered every boy who turned away, every whisper in school hallways, every moment someone looked through me like I didn't exist.
Iletmyself believe I was different with him. That maybe, just this once, someone saw me and didn't flinch.
But all I'd been was convenient. Secret. Disposable.
