The Fiction of Us (The Paper Hearts #1)

Prologue

“Iloved you in the silence, and that was the loudest thing I ever did.”

The sentence held steady on the screen, like it had been waiting for me to catch up. I read it once more, smiled, and clicked save—The Year Before You, was finished.

For a second, I sat there and let it land.

The house hummed, rain tapped the window, and half a glass of wine waited by my elbow—warm now, but I didn’t care. I let myself be happy. It settled low in my chest and loosened something I hadn’t realised had been tight for months.

I’d done it.

An entire year, typed into reality, laid out on the pages in front of me.

Justin wasn’t home to see this, to see me. So, I toasted the empty room and took a sip that tasted of relief, even as it sat heavy on my tongue.

Across the room, his jacket hung on the back of a chair. His shoes by the door were as familiar as the light switch, I could find in the dark.

I opened a draft email:

Dear Tess,

Attached is the final manuscript of “The Year Before You.”

It’s not perfect. But it’s true.

I attached the file and, after a beat, typed the name I’d used for every draft so far. Not my own.

Not yet.

I pressed send before I could overthink it and leaned back until the chair clicked.

I didn’t know what would happen when the story left my hands. I didn’t know who would love it, who would pick it apart, and what I’d be brave enough to put my real name on. I only knew this: I had written the book I needed.

My phone buzzed.

JUSTIN: Running late. Don’t wait up.

I send a thumbs-up and a heart. I set the phone face down.

Tonight wasn’t about who was here, it was about finishing.

I slid the laptop closed and let my fingers rest on the cover. There had been so many false starts, so many nights I’d convinced myself I couldn’t say the thing the way it needed to be said. And then, somehow, I had. Not as revenge. Not as a performance. But as truth.

The rain thickened for a moment. I took that as applause.

At the window, the streetlight threw soft gold across the glass, and my reflection looked a little taller. I touched the pane with two fingers, the way I used to touch finished chapters; a quiet ritual no one knew about.

‘Good job,’ I told myself, and meant it.

I turned off the lamp, left the last of the wine, and headed for bed with a lightness I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The file now sat out in the world, attached to an email, waiting for morning. I smiled into the dark.

And just like that, the quiet felt loud in the best possible way.