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The Surprise Was Hers

Auteur: Onyes
last update Dernière mise à jour: 2025-08-17 03:28:56

No one clapped.

No one spoke.

No one even breathed.

I stood at the end of the table, coat still on, one hand resting lightly on the back of my chair, and let them look.

Not with hunger.

Not with desire.

But with recognition.

Because they knew me.

Not as Evelyn Morgan, the rich girl with the “interesting face.”

Not as the woman they whispered about — “She’s pretty, but you can tell it’s not real.”

Not as the one who changed her nose, her jaw, her smile — like she was apologizing for existing.

No.

They saw me now.

And for the first time, they saw what they’d refused to see before.

That I had always been here.

That I had always been enough.

That the only thing that had changed was my refusal to hide.

A woman in a silver dress blinked at me like I’d appeared out of smoke.

Another turned to her neighbor and whispered, “Is that… her?” — like she couldn’t believe her eyes.

One man — a senior designer I’d seen at Parsons — actually straightened in his seat, as if instinctively showing respect
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  • I was more than pretty   The walk In silence.

    Sunday was soft.No plans.No calls.No ghosts.I stayed in.Put on an old apron — the one Mom gave me when I turned sixteen, covered in paint and flour stains.Turned on the jazz playlist Dad used to love.And I baked.Cinnamon rolls.Dark chocolate tarts.A lemon cake with lavender frosting — just because I wanted to see the color against the white plate.The kitchen filled with warmth.With scent.With life.For the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking about what came next.Who was watching.What I had to prove.I was just… here.Creating something small.Something sweet.Something mine.And when I sat at the table, tea in hand, watching the sunlight spill across the counter, I realized:I wasn’t healing in pieces.I was healing in moments.Like this.Like silence.Like flour on my fingers.Like the smell of vanilla in the air.Then Monday came.I dressed slowly.Not in anything flashy.Not to stand out.But to honor myself.The sleek black jumpsuit.The structured coat with the

  • I was more than pretty   Warming Reminder

    I didn’t cry long.The bath had taken it out of me — not just the tears, but the weight of memory.The scar on my foot.The roses in the trash.The lies wrapped in chocolate.But I didn’t let it drown me.I stepped out.Dried off.Pulled on soft pajamas.Brushed my hair until it shone.And just as I turned to go to bed — I stopped.Monday was coming.Not orientation.Not introductions.Not another performance.Work.My first official day at Parsons — not as a guest, not as Julian’s fiancée, not as Serena’s “sister” — but as Evelyn Morgan, Design Associate.And I wouldn’t walk in unprepared.I went to my desk.Opened the folder labeled Parsons – Onboarding.Pulled out the documents.Thick.Polished.Full of rules, expectations, hierarchies.I sat on the edge of my bed, legs tucked beneath me, and began to read.Not quickly.Not casually.Line by line.I started with the company mission: Innovation through integrity. Design that speaks, not shouts. It was more than a slogan. It was a pr

  • I was more than pretty   Behind the roses

    I saw the confusion in Mom’s eyes.I’d said, “Let them dry out.”Cold.Final.Too sharp.She didn’t understand.Why would I reject a gift?Why wouldn’t I cherish something so beautiful?And then I remembered.I wasn’t just protecting myself.I was protecting her.She trusted Julian.She liked Serena.She believed the life I was living.And if I broke it too fast, she’d worry.She’d question.She’d try to fix it — and ruin everything.So I smiled.Soft.Warm.Just like the old me.“Oh,” I said, reaching for the bouquet. “I didn’t mean it. Of course I’ll put them in water.”Her face relaxed. “I knew you would. He always knows how to make you smile.”My chest tightened.But I didn’t show it.I carried the roses and the box of chocolate upstairs — like a bride with her wedding gifts.Like a woman in love.And the moment my door closed?I walked straight to the trash can.No hesitation.No second thought.I dumped the chocolates in first — every last one.Then the bouquet — the deep red ro

  • I was more than pretty   Twisted mind

    I walked into the house like I was coming back from war.Not bruised.Not bleeding.But changed.The lights were low. The staff had gone. Only the soft glow from the living room welcomed me.And then she appeared.Mom.In her favorite sweater. Hair loose. A book in hand.She didn’t say, How was it?She just opened her arms.I walked into them.Held her — tightly, deeply — like I was reattaching myself to something real.“You’re home,” she whispered.“I missed you.”I didn’t say anything.Just breathed in the scent of her perfume — vanilla and lavender, the same since I was a child.She pulled back, smiled. “How was dinner? Was it nice? How’s Serena?”Her voice was warm.Genuine.Full of trust.Because she didn’t know.She’d known Serena Blake since we were teenagers.Had seen her at birthday parties, school events, family dinners.Had heard her say, “Evelyn’s my sister.”Had believed her.To Mom, Serena was kind.Thoughtful.A good influence.She had no idea the girl who hugged her da

  • I was more than pretty   Falsified friendships

    The city blurred outside the taxi window — streaks of gold and neon, like the world was crying light.I leaned my head against the glass.Closed my eyes.And remembered.Not the dinner.Not the lies.Not the fake smiles.I remembered how it began.High school.I was a sophomore.She was new.Serena Blake.She walked into homeroom like she already owned it — long hair, perfect skin, a laugh that made people turn.I watched her from the back row, invisible in my oversized sweater, my nose too wide, my acne-covered cheeks hidden under bangs.And then she smiled at me.Not out of pity.Not out of kindness.Like she’d seen something.We started talking.Then hanging out.Then she was everywhere.She said I was the only one who “got her.”That I was “real” in a world of fakes.That I was the sister she never had.And I believed her.Because I was lonely.Because no one else looked at me.Because she was the first person in years who said, “You’re enough.”But she didn’t mean it.She meant:

  • I was more than pretty   Way Home

    We left the restaurant together — not side by side, but close enough to look like friends.The city air was cool that night, the kind that slipped under your skin and carried the faint smell of rain. Streetlights hummed above us, casting their yellow glow onto the pavement, while the laughter and clatter of cutlery from the restaurant faded behind like an echo I no longer belonged to.There was no rush in our steps. No chatter to fill the silence. Just two figures moving down the sidewalk, bound by blood but divided by something deeper.And then came the moment.The one I used to live for.The ritual.The place in the night where I would pull out my phone, open the app, and say, “I’ll call you a taxi, Serena. Don’t worry, it’s no trouble.”Like it was my duty.Like it was my role in her life.Like my presence was only justified if I served.I used to do it without thinking, without hesitation. Even on nights when I was exhausted. Even when I was carrying pain I couldn’t name. Even whe

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