Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Softest Kind of Ruin: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

Nicole’s day began like any other.Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of her small apartment, casting soft stripes of gold across the floor. She stretched lazily, silencing her phone’s gentle alarm before it could disturb the quiet. The routine was familiar—comforting. The steady rhythm of her life was a balm against the uncertainty that had followed her since graduation.The bookstore had taken her in like an old friend. In the low hum of pages turning and the comforting scent of ink and paper, she found stability. Here, she wasn’t exceptional—just another person shelved between the fiction and nonfiction. And that, in its own way, felt like safety.After a quick shower, she dressed in her usual faded sweater and jeans—the kind of clothes that asked for nothing and expected nothing in return. Her hair, still damp, was swept into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Familiar. Unremarkable. She was used to seeing h

The walk to work was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. The streets were still sleepy, touched only by the early morning light. She passed the same storefronts, the same chipped lampposts, the same faces—college students laughing over coffee, joggers pounding pavement with rhythmic footfalls. Nicole greeted a few familiar strangers with polite smiles, people who had become part of the backdrop of her routine life.When she reached the bookstore, the bell above the door chimed softly—its ring like a whispered welcome. The scent of aged paper and pine-wood shelves washed over her as she stepped inside. This place was still her haven.“Good morning, Nicole,” called Mr.Torres from behind the counter. He was already settling into his usual spot with a steaming mug in hand. His silver hair and kind eyes gave him the air of someone who had long made peace with the quiet rhythm of days like this.“Morning,” she replied with a small nod, placing her bag beneath the counter befo

It started with a package.No return address. No note.Just a small, matte-black box resting on her doorstep like it had always been there.Inside was a single, pressed violet.Nicole stood frozen in her entryway, staring down at it. The flower was perfectly preserved—delicate, pale purple, tucked between layers of crisp white tissue paper. It had been handled with care.She remembered something she’d read once—about the language of flowers.Violets meant Discretion. Secret love. Modesty.She closed the lid slowly. Her fingertips tingled as if she were being watched even now.But it didn’t stop there.At first, it was subtle—just enough to make her second-guess herself.A mug turned the wrong way in the cabinet.A book resting on the shelf an inch to the left.She chalked it up to fatigue. Distraction. Maybe she’d simply forgotten.But the feeling didn’t leave.The feeling of something off.Her phone buzzed at strange hours. Blank messages lit up her screen. Sometimes from unknown num

She didn’t want to go to the police.But she had to.The moment she stepped inside the station, a coldness settled in her chest. The fluorescent lights, the buzz of low conversation, the smell of coffee gone bitter in the pot—it all felt too ordinary for what she was about to say.She waited her turn. Fingers wringing in her lap, heart in her throat.When they finally called her forward, the officer—middle-aged, half-tired—tilted his head as she spoke.She told them everything.The packages. The messages. The social media hacks. The photos taken without her knowledge. The sense—constant, crawling—that she was being watched.She didn’t say his name. Because she didn’t know it.She didn’t say he’d hurt her. Because he hadn’t.Not physically.Not yet.The officer was polite. Professional. But his expression shifted the longer she spoke—from mild concern to something like doubt.“There’s nothing specific we can pursue,” he said gently. “No threats. No physical harm. It could be a pran

She stopped hiding. But not all at once.There was no grand turning point—no moment where the fear cracked open and light poured in. No montage of recovery. Just silence. Slow. Heavy.It began with forgetting. Forgetting to check the back door. Forgetting to pull the curtains. Forgetting to flinch at the sound of her own name whispered on the street. Not because she wasn’t afraid. But because being afraid all the time had become exhausting.She had unraveled quietly. Each day peeling away another layer of vigilance until only the echo of fear remained—too worn to scream, too stubborn to disappear.So she stitched herself back into her old routines. She got up with the alarm. Brewed coffee. Caught the train. Walked past the corner where she once thought she saw him, and didn’t pause. Not anymore. She returned to work. Laughed at the same jokes. Wrote receipts with steady hands that only trembled after closing.It was all pretend. But sometimes pretending was easier than explaining why