His fingers twitch slightly, his jaw clenching. “And you still want your family’s approval?”
I exhale shakily. “Is it such a crime,” I whisper, “to want to be seen?”
Kai’s expression doesn’t change. “Being seen by people who don’t love you is just another way to disappear.”
I look down, twisting my fingers together, pressing my nails into my palm.
“Why don’t you speak, Paris?”
My head snaps up so fast it almost hurts.
I know what he means. He doesn’t mean right now. He means in general.
“What?” My eyes practically bulge out of my head, my voice cracking.
“Am I the first to ask?” he asks, gaze steady.
I nod. Because he is. Because no one else has ever cared enough to notice.
He exhales sharply and drags a hand down his face, brushing the rain from his skin. Then, without much thought, he asks, “Is it because of your stutter?”
Damn it. He knows that too.
Not many people do. Mostly because I don’t speak enough for them to realize.
“Partly.”
Kai tilts his head slightly, watching me with mild interest, studying me like I’m something he’s trying to understand. “What does it feel like?”
My hands tighten in my lap. No one has ever asked me that before. I don’t even know how to describe it. Not to him.
I inhale slowly. “Imagine h-h-having something you love… i-in your hands, s-something fragile and precious.”
Kai says nothing, his eyes fixed on mine. This time, he’s not just looking. He’s listening.
I swallow. “B-but e-every time you try and… share it, you crush it instead.”
His lips press into a thin line, crossing his legs over as he leans back. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
I let out a short, hollow laugh. “It is.”
Something in my chest tightens. I open my mouth, but no words come.
But I do smile. Something I haven’t done in a long time. It’s small, but it’s real and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something I have to force.
Kai doesn’t smile back, but he sees it—I can tell. And somehow, that’s enough.
Icanbe accepted. Iwillbe. I am not easy to love, but I am still worthy of it. I didn’t realize that until today.
Maybe the people that are the hardest to love are actually the ones who need it the most.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Bea’s eyes widen, pupils dilating, breath catching. Then, she’s moving, twisting toward me with this look—this look that makes my stomach drop before she even speaks.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, Bea—”
