Until I Wrote Him
She carries pain like a crown, and I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by people who wear their wounds that way.
“Sometimes,” I begin, my voice softening despite myself, “we’re so blinded by hurt that we can’t even see the truth right in front of us. And we may spend the rest of our lives wondering if we actually took that path to find out what really happened... what would have been the outcome?”
Her lips part slightly, her brow furrowed, the confusion there, the shock, it hits me harder than I expect.
“That’s my work,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Velvet Lies.”