Chapter 5: The Truth I Couldn't Admit

POV: Maya

I woke up to find his side empty, for a second, I thought he'd left. My hand stretched out to the space beside me, still warm, but empty. My heart kicked - too fast, too hard.

Then I heard it.

The creak of floorboards. The soft pad of bare feet.

I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the early morning sun. Noah was standing by the window, shirtless with his arms folded, as he stared out in thought.

He didn’t turn when I spoke. “Couldn’t sleep?”

A pause. Then: “I did. Then I woke up.”

I stood up and walked to him, wrapping the throw blanket from the end of the bed around my shoulders. I didn’t ask if he was alright. He wasn’t. That much was obvious.

His knuckles were white around his arms. His jaw clenched tight. And there was something haunted in his eyes - a shadow I hadn’t seen before.

“I was in a car,” he said suddenly, voice hollow. “Rain was hammering down. I was on the phone. I think... arguing. Or desperate. And then everything went black.”

My breath caught.

I hadn’t asked about his past - not once. Not because I wasn’t curious. But because I was afraid. And now, hearing him talk about it made me see how close it was.

“It felt real,” he added, voice low. “Too real.”

“It probably was,” I said gently, stepping beside him. “Dreams can be memories, sometimes. Fragmented, but there.”

He turned to me, confused. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

That hit more that i felt that it should.

I should’ve said something smart. Something soothing. But all I could manage was: “Then don’t. Not yet.”

He looked at me for a long time. As if I was the only solid thing he could still hold on to.

Later, I made tea. Because tea fixes everything. Or at the very least, it gives you something simple to do.

He sat at the kitchen table, one hand holding the mug, the other circling the tip. I tried not to watch him. Tried not to feel the ache curling behind my ribs at the sight of him so still. So lost.

“You tied that blanket around you like it’s armour,” he said after a while.

I glanced down and laughed softly. “It is. My battle cloak.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Do you always use humour when things get too heavy?”

“Only when I’m not emotionally equipped for actual feelings.”

“Right. You’re a professional deflector.”

“Exactly.”

He took a sip of his tea and gave me a sidelong glance. “You’re not what I expected.”

I raised a brow. “Expected how?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But you’re... kind. And brave. And funny. I was really lucky to be your boyfriend.”

Something in me cracked.

Because for a moment, I almost wished he had been. That this whole story I made up was real. That I’d found someone who could see me - really see me - and still choose to stay.

But this wasn’t a fairytale. It was a borrowed illusion. And I didn’t know how long I could keep it going before the weight of it crushed me.

***

Later that day, I left him in the flat with a few books and told him to relax. I had to head to the shop.

When I returned, the flat smelled faintly of toasted bread and fabric softener. And there he was - wearing one of my dad’s old button-downs I’d kept at the back of the wardrobe for years, tucked in loosely like he’d done it a thousand times before.

I froze.

Because it wasn’t just that he looked good - it was the way he moved. Confident. Unbothered. Like someone used to dressing well, like he didn’t feel strange wearing quality.

“No offence,” I said slowly, “but most people don’t tie their cuffs like that.”

He looked at his wrist. “Must’ve picked it up somewhere.”

“And you folded that pocket square.”

He looked down, startled - as if he hadn’t even realised what he’d done. “Habit, I guess.”

I nodded, heart pounding. He wasn’t doing this consciously. That was the scary part.

It was embedded.

This wasn’t just some posh upbringing. This was learned grace. Groomed, probably. Practised from birth.

But I said nothing.

Because even though I noticed, I still wasn’t ready to know.

That night, he beat me to bed.

I found him curled up on the left side - my side - with the blanket up to his chest, eyes already closed.

“You’re stealing my side now?” I teased, slipping under the covers.

He cracked one eye open. “Didn’t realise sides were assigned.”

“Only if we’re playing domestic.”

He smiled faintly and murmured, “Feels almost natural.”

That silenced me. Because he wasn’t wrong.

I didn’t expect to get used to having him around. But I had. Too easily. I noticed when he wasn’t in the room. I caught myself looking for him first thing in the morning. And when I laughed, it was always because of something he’d said.

I’d built this lie to protect myself.

But somehow, it had become the safest place I knew.

I dreamt that night.

Not of faceless men or flashbacks - but of him. Sitting across from me at some elegant restaurant, laughing at something stupid I’d said, wearing a suit that looked like it cost more than my rent.

It was blurry around the edges, but vivid enough to feel real. Like a memory. But it couldn’t be.

Because this wasn’t our story.

He wasn’t mine.

Not really.

I woke up covered in the sheets. Noah was still asleep beside me. Peaceful again and beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

I reached out, brushing a loose hair from his forehead.

He didn’t stir.

And in that moment, I knew something I hadn’t dared admit until now.

I didn’t want him to go.

I didn’t want this to end.

Even if it was built on lies. Even if the truth could burn it all down.

I wanted to keep him.

Even if it meant breaking my own heart.