He nods slowly, as if that doesn’t surprise him. “Then I’m glad you said yes to this.”
That warmth in his voice again—not pushy, not smug, just simple and kind—leaves me with nowhere to hide. I manage a small smile and say, “You’re infuriatingly good at this game.”
“Years of practice,” he says, smiling back.
I roll my eyes and splash a bit of water in his direction. “Truth or dare?”
He grins. “Dare.”
I pause, considering. “I dare you to stop being so smug.”
He chuckles. “Impossible.”
And somehow, that makes me laugh harder than anything else has all day.
We keep playing, trading questions that start out easy—favourite film, worst holiday, the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever bought. It’s light, harmless, safe. Each round feels a little easier than the last.
Then he asks again, voice low and steady. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say, because I can’t bring myself to risk anything else.
He hesitates, watching me with that gentle, unreadable expression of his. “Do you ever feel lonely being on your own?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water. I blink, caught off guard. “That’s… direct.”
“Sorry,” he says softly. “Too much?”
“No,” I say after a moment. “Just… honest.”
He nods, waiting, not pushing. And before I can stop myself, the words start coming.
“Yes. I do. All the time.”
I force myself to lock eyes with him. For some reason I want him to know that for once I am not hiding. “I tell myself I like the quiet. That I chose it. But most days it just feels like the world’s moved on and forgotten to take me with it.”
He doesn’t speak. His silence feels safe, like space rather than absence.
“I’ve always been awkward,” I admit quietly. “The less I spend time around people, the harder it gets. You lose the rhythm of it—knowing when to speak, when to laugh. It’slike watching everyone else speak a language you used to be fluent in.”
The water hums softly between us.
“It started at university,” I say. “I was the serious one. The one who didn’t drink or party or hook up with half the student union. They called me a goody two-shoes. So I tried to prove them wrong.”
I swallow hard. “There was a guy. I thought he liked me. He didn’t. He just… wanted a story to tell.”
My throat tightens, but I can’t seem to stop. “It was my first time. It hurt. He laughed. Told people I was pathetic. After that, I decided I’d rather be invisible than be humiliated again.”
Aaron’s still silent, his expression unreadable but not cold. Just present.
“So I threw everything into work,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “It’s easier to study language patterns than people. Words don’t stare at you or lie to your face. They just are.”
I take a deep breath and whisper, “I didn’t just withdraw from the worId. I haven’t been with another man either.” I feel vulnerable and raw and I wait for him to laugh but the laugh doesn’t come.
I finally meet his eyes. “That probably sounds ridiculous.”
“No. Not at all,” he says, his voice low and certain.
That calm sincerity undoes me more than sympathy ever could. I let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I just said all that. I’ve never even told my therapist half of it.”
