Chapter Eight - Hannah
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hannah
Hannah couldn't feel her fingers.
The credit card receipt was still clutched in her hand, creased and damp from the snow. Eight hundred and forty-seven dollars and ninety-two cents.
Why had she waited? What was wrong with her that she'd kept hoping, kept making excuses—maybe he got held up, maybe there was an emergency—even as other diners whispered and stared?
She should probably be worried about maxing out her emergency credit card, about how she'd have to eat ramen for the next three months to pay it off. Instead, all she could think about was how the manager had looked at her with such pity when she'd finally admitted to herself that her date wasn't coming back.
Her date .
The laugh that escaped her throat sounded strange even to her own ears. A date implied two people, didn't it? What she'd been was a prop. A convenient extra in James Park's elaborate performance.
The snow was falling harder now, catching in her carefully styled hair. She'd spent too long on it, watching tutorials, wanting to look perfect. Now the wet strands clung to her neck, making her shiver. Her new dress, hidden beneath her coat, felt like a costume she couldn't wait to tear off.
A couple hurried past, laughing and holding hands. Hannah pressed herself against a building to let them pass, suddenly unable to bear the sight of genuine connection. Their happiness felt like sandpaper against her raw emotions.
"At least let me call you an Uber," Sophie's voice crackled through her phone. "You shouldn't be walking in this weather."
"I need the air," Hannah said, her voice steadier than she felt. "And anyway, I'm almost home.
"Hannah." Sophie's tone held that dangerous mix of fury and concern. "You don't have to pretend this didn't hurt."
"I'm not pretending." But even as she said it, Hannah felt the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. "I just... I feel so stupid."
" He's the stupid one."
Hannah stopped at a crosswalk, staring up at the familiar silhouette of her building. Light spilled from the windows. He was probably up in his apartment right now, warm and comfortable. How easily James had used the building's pathetically eager do-gooder for his revenge plot.
"For a minute there, at the beginning..." Hannah's voice caught. "I actually believed him. The way he looked at me, how he pulled out my chair... I thought maybe..."
"Han—"
"But he wasn't even seeing me, was he?" The tears finally came, hot against her frozen cheeks. "He was watching for her reaction. Making sure she saw his perfect little performance. Knew exactly how to make me look—" She broke off, remembering how he'd positioned her, angled her chair just so. For the photo. For the scene he was creating.
A bus passed, spraying slush onto the sidewalk. Hannah barely noticed the wet seeping into her new shoes.
"I'm coming over," Sophie declared. "With wine. And possibly arson supplies."
"No, I just... I need to be alone." Hannah could see her building's entrance now. The same lobby she'd loitered in so many mornings, straightening pictures that didn't need straightening, just for a glimpse of him. "You were right about me."
"What do you mean?"
"I built this whole fantasy about who he really was underneath it all." Hannah's laugh was bitter. "But there was no underneath. He's…nothing. Empty."
She reached her building's entrance, but couldn't bring herself to go inside yet. Through the glass doors, she could see the Valentine's decorations she'd helped put up. Paper hearts and twinkling lights that had seemed so full of possibility just hours ago.
Hannah stared at her reflection in the lobby doors—mascara smudged, hair ruined, looking exactly like what she was: a foolish girl who'd thought she was special enough to catch James Park's attention. Who'd spent months convincing herself she saw depths in him that others missed. Who'd actually believed, for one pathetic moment, that he'd noticed her back.
"I'm done making up stories about James Park," she whispered, but even now, even after everything, a small voice in her head whispered: Maybe there was a reason. Maybe something happened. Maybe—
She dug her nails into her palms, hating herself for still wanting to believe in him.
"I promise," she whispered, but she wasn't sure if she was talking to Sophie or herself. "I'm done being stupid about James Park."
She ended the call and pushed through the doors, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead as she crossed the lobby. She didn't adjust the crooked painting by the elevator. Didn't straighten the pile of newspapers on the side table. Didn't do any of the little things she usually did to make this place feel like home.
Some pictures were better left crooked.
And some men, she was finally learning, were exactly who they appeared to be—no matter how desperately you wished otherwise.
She jabbed the elevator button, then again, harder, needing to escape before anyone saw her like this. Before Mrs. Chen or Mr. Thompson or any of the residents she helped every day realized what an idiot she'd been. How she'd thrown herself at the first hint of attention from James Park, like every other woman who'd ever fallen for his perfect smile and beautiful eyes.
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Her studio apartment felt wrong. The single room that served as bedroom, living room, and everything in between suddenly seemed too small, too exposed.
Hannah stood just inside her door, coat dripping melted snow onto the welcome mat, unable to move further. Everything was in the right place—no mess of outfit choices strewn across her armchair, no makeup scattered on her coffee table. She'd put everything away before she left.
Evidence of hope. Of anticipation.
Of stupidity.
Her phone buzzed again. Sophie, probably with more threats of arson. But when Hannah looked at the screen, her heart stopped.
@JamesPark tagged you in a photo
For one terrible moment, her finger hovered over the notification. Then she deliberately pressed and held, watching the options appear.
Block @JamesPark? Yes.
It wasn't enough. She opened her settings and deleted the entire app. Each tap felt like building a wall, brick by brick, between herself and her own foolishness.
The makeup wipes were in the bathroom. Hannah grabbed them with more force than necessary, dragging one roughly across her face. The careful eyeshadow she'd spent so long blending disappeared in a smear of beige and disappointment. Another wipe for her lipstick—the colour she'd hoped would make her look sophisticated enough for Nero's. For him.
"Stop it," she commanded her reflection. "Stop thinking about him."
But his presence lingered everywhere—in the cheerfully patterned dress she'd chosen in the hope that he would like it on her, in the way she'd positioned her furniture so it would look more "put together" if he ever came up after their date.
God, she'd really convinced herself he might come up after their date.
The laugh that escaped her throat sounded dangerously close to a sob. Hannah yanked the dress off, not caring if she tore it. Let it rip. Let it be ruined. It was just another prop in a performance she'd been stupid enough to believe was real.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Mrs. Chen: Dear one, are you home safe?
Hannah stared at the message, remembering Mrs. Chen's cryptic warnings. All those gentle hints that Hannah had ignored, too caught up in her fantasy of being noticed by James Park to see what was right in front of her.
Yes , she typed back. I'm fine.
The response was immediate: Tea helps warm the spirit.
Hannah set down her phone without answering.
In her tiny bathroom, she scrubbed her face until her skin was raw, erasing every trace of the woman who'd left this apartment full of hope hours ago. The woman who'd spent months straightening lobby artwork and watering plants, all for the chance to exchange two words with a man who'd never even bothered to learn her name until he had a use for her.
"From now on," she told her reflection, "James Park doesn't exist."
Her reflection stared back, makeup-free and harsh under the fluorescent lights. She looked younger. More vulnerable. More like herself.
That was good. That was what she needed. To remember who she was before she'd started crafting her life around glimpses of James Park in elevators and lobbies. Before she'd turned herself into the kind of woman who waited two hours at Nero's, watching the door, making excuses for a man who'd already forgotten she existed.
Hannah changed into her oldest, most comfortable pajamas. They were faded and worn soft with washing, as far from her carefully chosen dinner outfit as she could get.
A text lit up her phone screen: Seriously, Han. I can be there in twenty minutes with wine and no judgment.
Hannah stared at Sophie's message for a long moment. Then she picked up her phone and typed: Not tonight. I need to be alone I think.
The response was immediate: I love you. Call me anytime. Even at 3 AM. Especially at 3 AM.
Hannah curled up on her armchair, wrapping herself in the blanket her grandmother had made. Outside, snow continued to fall, covering the city in clean white silence. Tomorrow, she'd start over. She'd be just Hannah again—the teacher who helped her elderly neighbors, who organized community events, who didn't spend her mornings hoping to catch glimpses of men who would never see her.
But tonight... tonight she would let herself feel every sharp edge of this lesson.
After all, some things had to break completely before they could be rebuilt.