VOLUME I ACT I CHAPTER EIGHT The Things We Don't Say (Part One)
VOLUME I
ACT I
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Things We Don't Say
(Part One)
Morning came with a pale, grey sky and the kind of quiet that settles over a room like fog. When I opened my eyes, he was already awake, lying beside me on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unmoving. There was something unreadable in his stillness.
He didn’t look at me, but he said, “You breathe heavy when you sleep.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Like you’re always fighting something. Even in your dreams.”
I turned onto my side, searching his face. “What does that mean?”
He finally looked at me. “I think you’ve been carrying guilt for longer than I realized. Maybe even since the beginning.”
I didn’t answer. Because he was right.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the bed. “I don’t want to tiptoe around this anymore. I need to ask you questions, and I need you to answer without trying to protect me.”
I pushed the sheets aside and sat up slowly. “Okay.”
He faced me fully. “Was there ever a version of this story where you told me the truth before we fell in love?”
I swallowed. “Yes. I thought about it so many times. Especially in New York. But I was scared.”
“Of losing me?”
“Of ruining what we had. Of you seeing everything we built as fake. I didn’t want to lose the one thing that finally felt real.”
He nodded, then asked: “Did you lie about anything else?”
“No,” I said immediately. Then paused. “Except… maybe the Chinese food.”
His lips twitched. “You really hate it?”
I nodded. “With my whole soul.”
A short silence stretched between us—thin, delicate.
“Why now?” he asked. “Why tell me after all these years?”
I hesitated. “Because I was starting to feel like I didn’t exist in our love story. Only the version of me that orchestrated it did. And because I thought… maybe you were starting to figure it out.”
He blinked. “What made you think that?”
I hesitated. Then said it: “My old phone. You had it. Didn’t you?”
A shadow passed through his expression. “I did.”
I felt my chest tighten. “How long?”
“A few weeks,” he admitted. “It was in one of the moving boxes. I didn’t mean to find it. But when I did, I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to believe you were exactly who you said you were.”
“I was. I am.”
“I know.” His voice was low. “But the part of you I didn’t know… scared me.”
Later that day, his mother called.
He answered in the bedroom with the door cracked open, so I heard bits and pieces. Her voice was high and tight, emotions spilling over. His was steady, but tired.
When he hung up, he came to sit beside me on the couch.
“She wants to see you.”
My eyes widened. “She what?”
“She said if we’re going to try to move forward, she wants to talk to you face-to-face. Not as my mother. But as someone who also feels betrayed.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“I’ll come with you. But I won’t speak for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
We met her at her house the next day.
The same house I used to visit as a teenager. The same kitchen I used to sit in while she told me stories about her oldest son, stories I clung to like gospel.
Now I was walking back into it as the girl who turned those stories into blueprints.
She didn’t hug me. Didn’t smile.
But she offered me tea. That was something.
We sat at the kitchen table, the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows. It felt warm on my arms, but my insides were ice.
“I loved you like a daughter,” she said plainly.
“I know.”
“I trusted you.”
I nodded.
“And I still want to trust you. But you have to help me understand how someone so young, so innocent on the outside, could plan something so... intricate.”
I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. At least not in the way it sounds. I just… saw something I wanted and didn’t know any other way to reach it.”
“And you never stopped to think it was wrong?”
“I did. Many times. But I also convinced myself it was harmless. That I wasn’t hurting anyone by learning about him, or by loving him quietly.”
“But you weren’t loving him quietly, were you?” she asked. “You were watching. Following. Creating paths to be closer. That’s not love. That’s... strategy.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“I don’t think you do. Because if it were my daughter, and someone did that to her…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
“I’m not proud of what I did,” I said softly. “But I’ve grown since then. The girl who started all this wouldn’t have confessed. She would’ve buried it deeper.”
She studied me for a long moment. “And you told him everything?”
“Yes.”
She sat back. “Then I can’t be more angry than he is. If he’s willing to try, I won’t be the one to stand in the way.”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “Thank you.”
She nodded once, then stood. “I need time. But you’re welcome in this house again. For now.”
That night, as we lay in bed, K said, “My mom likes you. Still.”
I looked over at him. “That’s shocking.”
“She said you looked scared. But you never tried to lie your way out of it. That matters.”
I turned onto my side. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me fully?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I think forgiveness is a road, not a switch. But I haven’t turned around. That’s something.”
I reached for his hand in the dark.
He held mine this time.
Tightly.
