Chapter 2 Silent Tears, Loud Thoughts
Dinner should have felt warm. Familiar. Comfortable.
But it didn't.
Ryder sat across from me, animated and bright-eyed as he talked about his new clients at the gym. A guy training for his first triathlon. A woman who just had her second baby and was trying to get her strength back. He smiled when he spoke about them, his hands moving with excitement.
He laughed. I smiled. He asked about my day, my students, if I'd seen any of "the girls" lately—May, June, January. I answered him, politely, carefully.
But I felt far away. Not once did he mention what I said last night.
Not one word about it. I kept wondering if he heard me at all.
Or if he just filed it away in some box labeled "Too Soon" or "Not Worth Noticing.
" And if he did notice the quiet in my voice, or the way my smile never quite reached my eyes. .. he didn't let on.
After we ate, I cleaned up while he scrolled through his phone, occasionally reading me things he thought were funny. I nodded along. I laughed where I was supposed to. But inside?
I was just... tired.
When it was time for bed, I retreated into the bathroom and closed the door like it was armor. I took my time with my skincare routine, methodically patting creams and serums into my skin—layer after layer, as if they could fix what was unraveling beneath the surface.
I stared into the mirror. My reflection looked calm, composed. But my eyes gave me away.
I had told him I loved him. And he had kissed my forehead.
Said I was "adorable." Like a puppy. Or a child.
Not a woman. Not his woman. It was the first time in my entire life I'd ever said "I love you" to a man.
And I'd meant it with every trembling, terrified part of me.
No man had ever said those words to me. Not even my father.
My mom had. So many times. But somehow, even all of hers together didn't feel like enough to fill this ache.
When I finally walked back into the bedroom, he was already under the covers, shirtless, hair tousled like he belonged in some kind of cologne ad. He looked over and smiled that lazy, beautiful smile.
"I've missed sleeping next to you," he said. I forced a nod. "I'm really tired."
"That's okay, come here" he said easily.
He pulled me into his arms, and I let him. His warmth wrapped around me, and for a second I wished it could sink into my bones and make me feel whole again. But it didn't. He whispered, "Sweet dreams." And just like that, he fell asleep. I stayed very still.
Very quiet.
And I cried silent, steady tears that soaked into his arm and the pillow, invisible to him but loud enough in my own chest to feel like thunder.
I imagined myself beautiful. Not just pretty.
Not "adorable." But undeniable. A woman who could be loved fully and fearlessly.
I imagined a version of myself who didn't have to hide how badly she wanted to be chosen.
And then I lay there in the dark beside a man I loved.
A man who maybe didn't love me back. And I told myself over and over: "Don't wake him.
Don't let him see you like this. Just hold on a little longer. "
I woke up with swollen eyes. The kind that told the truth before I could open my mouth. Ryder was still asleep, the room bathed in that soft Wednesday morning glow we used to love. His day off. My late start. We were supposed to work out together, maybe grab breakfast after—our little tradition.
But today? I couldn't pretend. Not after last night.
Not after the hour I spent curled next to him, silently crying into his chest, while he dreamt peacefully beside me.
I slipped out of bed, grateful—so grateful—that he was a heavy sleeper.
The shower helped clear my head but not the ache in my chest. When I got out and caught my reflection, I stopped.
My eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, cheeks dull, lips pressed in tight, and then I saw everything else.
The soft belly that refused to flatten, the stretch in my arms no matter how many sets I lifted, the skin around my neck that I swore looked older every morning.
No wonder I was still a secret.
I got dressed quickly, grabbed my bag, and left without a sound.
May's art studio was nestled in the corner of a converted warehouse, one of those cozy creative spaces that always smelled like acrylic paint and lavender candles.
She practically lived there. It wasn't even 8 a.m., but I knew she'd be there—probably barefoot, wild-haired, with a paintbrush behind her ear.
Sure enough, she answered the door in paint-splattered pajamas, blinking like she forgot what time of day it was.
"Is it Thursday?" she mumbled.
"Wednesday."
"Damn. Come in."
I stepped inside, and the familiar chaos of May's world wrapped around me like a hug.
Stretched canvases leaned against every wall.
Half-finished paintings and open jars of paint cluttered every surface.
Music hummed low from a speaker in the corner, something French and soft.
We didn't say anything at first. She just handed me a chipped black mug filled with bitter coffee and sat cross-legged on the floor, working on a portrait of a sleeping cat.
"You okay?" she asked eventually. Not like a demand. More like a nudge.
I stared into my mug, fingers wrapped tight around the warmth.
"Do you think... do you think I'll ever be attractive enough to be loved by a man?"
She didn't gasp or freeze. She just sighed.
"I knew something was going on," she said gently. "I've been waiting for you to talk. I respect that you didn't want to. But if it's about a guy..." She looked up at me, paint streaked across her cheek. "He's a damn fool."
I swallowed hard.
"No. No one called me ugly. He just... he doesn't love me back."
I felt the tears building again. "Please don't ask me to explain more."
She took another breath, softer this time.
"Okay. So maybe he doesn't love you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But what makes you think that has anything to do with your looks?"
I didn't answer.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," she whispered.
And then she smiled, eyes lighting up like only May's could.
"Actually... you can. I'm going to paint you. Like one of those French models."
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I'm serious. I want to paint you. I want you to see the softness in your collarbone, the curve of your shoulders, the way your eyes hold entire galaxies when you're not trying to hide."
"...You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to pose nude for you."
She laughed, full and unbothered.
"Who said anything about nude? I meant clothed.
Mostly." She winked. "Unless you want to go full 'Titanic,' in which case, I'll get my charcoal pencils.
" Despite myself, I laughed too. A real laugh—sharp and sudden and slightly watery.
Maybe I wasn't ready to be loved. But maybe I was ready to be seen.