VOLUME I ACT I CHAPTER FOUR The Secret Between Us (Part Two)
VOLUME I
ACT I
CHAPTER FOUR
The Secret Between Us
(Part Two)
And I prayed she was enough.
But prayers didn’t erase guilt. They didn’t rewrite the beginnings of things. And they certainly didn’t soothe the storm that brewed inside me whenever he looked at me like I was his miracle.
The next morning, I woke up to a message from him:
Morning, sunshine. Come over later? I made that weird mango smoothie you like. Don’t judge me.
I smiled, heart pounding. It was so easy to fall into this—his warmth, his laughter, the comfort of the affection that grew between us in slow, deliberate steps. But nothing about what had gotten us here was slow or simple. I had rushed fate. I had rehearsed a love story before the main character even knew I existed.
Still, I showered, picked the perfect sweatshirt, and grabbed my umbrella. The sky was gray, and the air smelled like damp earth and second chances.
His apartment smelled like citrus and cinnamon. A strange but oddly comforting combination. He grinned when he saw me at the door.
“Still hate the rain?”
“I tolerate it now,” I lied.
He pulled me into a hug before I could say more. That was the thing about him. He didn’t always ask for permission to show affection. But he always gave me room to accept it—or not. I always did.
“I made pancakes too,” he said as he led me into the kitchen.
“You’re feeding me? Trying to bribe me?”
“I don’t need to bribe you. You’re already mine.”
That sentence nearly stopped my heart. I bit my lip to keep it together.
Was I his? Or was I still the girl from the shadows, pretending to be someone who arrived by coincidence?
We ate on the couch, the sound of rain pattering against the windows like background music. He played an old song I used to have on repeat when I was fifteen. He didn’t know that. He had no idea how many of his favorite songs I had pretended to discover “by chance.”
“How do you always know what I want to listen to?” he asked with a smirk.
I shrugged. “We’re just in sync, I guess.”
He leaned closer. “Or maybe you’re just the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I turned to him slowly. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because… what if you don’t mean it in a year? Or five?”
“I’ll still mean it in fifty.”
His conviction scared me. Because I wasn’t sure if we’d even make it to month six once he knew the truth.
That afternoon, I helped him organize his bookshelf. Something mundane, domestic, oddly intimate. He handed me a book I had gifted him anonymously years ago. One I knew he loved. One I had slipped into his mailbox wrapped in brown paper when he was home from college for the summer.
“This book,” he said, flipping through the pages, “It’s like it just showed up one day. My mom swore she didn’t buy it. Neither did my brother. No clue where it came from.”
My stomach tightened.
“You ever do stuff like that?” he asked, glancing at me. “Give people things anonymously?”
“Maybe,” I said carefully. “Depends on the person.”
He smiled. “I used to think maybe it was fate. Or like… the universe putting the right stories in my hands.”
“It was something like that,” I said softly.
He tucked the book back onto the shelf without pushing further. But I could tell something in my tone had caught his attention.
Later, as he dozed off beside me on the couch, I stared at his face, peaceful and open. His hand still loosely held mine.
And I thought of all the tiny decisions I’d made over the years to end up here.
Joining the same school club as his brother. Taking up the same sport he once played. Learning his favorite movies and casually suggesting them like it was the first time I’d heard of them.
Every move calculated, every friendship used like a step toward him.
But over time, it stopped being about the goal and started being about him. The real him. The one who listened when I talked about my fears. The one who remembered I liked my tea without sugar. The one who once stood in the rain with me for twenty minutes just so I could finish ranting about a professor.
He wasn’t a prize I had won. He was a person I had grown to love. Truly love.
But that didn’t make the beginning less manipulative.
I leaned my head against the back of the couch, silent tears sliding down my cheeks.
“I love you,” I whispered, unsure if I wanted him to hear.
He stirred but didn’t wake.
The next day, I met up with his brother for coffee. I hadn’t seen him in weeks.
“So,” he said, lifting his cup, “What’s going on with you and K?”
I paused. “Why?”
He shrugged. “He talks about you a lot. You two are… different now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… I don’t know. He seems happier. But also like he’s overthinking things. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to drop.”
I swallowed hard.
“He’s always been intuitive,” I muttered.
“Too intuitive sometimes. Hey—can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Back when we first became friends, did you like me? Like, romantically?”
The question stunned me.
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean—you’re great. But no. I didn’t.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay. It’s just… I remember thinking you were kind of intense. Like you really wanted to be around our family. Especially my mom.”
I smiled tightly. “She’s easy to love.”
“She is,” he agreed. “But I always wondered if you liked someone else. If maybe you were trying to get closer to someone.”
I froze. He was staring at me too intently.
“Is this your way of saying you’ve figured it out?” I asked.
He sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. But I think K’s starting to.”
That night, I got another message from him.
Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something to go wrong?
I stared at it for a long time before typing:
Every day.
He responded almost instantly:
Why?
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Because things that feel too perfect usually aren’t.
Do WE feel too perfect to you?
Sometimes.
Should I be scared?
I didn’t respond right away. Then:
No. But I should be.
I went to bed that night with the weight of truth pressing down on me. And a single thought repeating in my mind:
I didn’t just build a love story.
I built a ticking time bomb.
And soon, it would go off.
