Shattered hearts

Chapter one: "Twisted lies"

Griffin:

  The evening breeze brought a refreshing chill, signaling the arrival of autumn. Inside the bathroom, Violet was focused on perfecting her makeup and hair, while I stood on the balcony, fully dressed and excited for our night out. I had secured a reservation at one of her favorite restaurants, but as the minutes passed, I felt the weight of time pressing down on us.
Our journey together began in the innocence of childhood, where we forged a bond as family friends. In an unexpected turn of events, she has become my partner. This situation wasn't entirely of my own making; my parents had gently guided me toward this direction, convinced that my charm with women needed to be balanced by a more committed relationship. Violet Miller seemed like the perfect choice—she embodied a certain naivety and a heart full of romantic dreams. A few outings and some flowers were all it took to make her happy, and while it may sound harsh, this arrangement was rooted in convenience rather than genuine affection.
Unbeknownst to her, Violet remained blissfully ignorant of the true nature of our relationship. She believed wholeheartedly that I was deeply in love with her, while in reality, I found myself playing a role that was crafted by the expectations of others. The contrast between her hopeful outlook and my underlying motivations created a complex dynamic that neither of us fully understood. As we navigated that partnership, I couldn't help but wonder how long I could maintain the facade before the truth inevitably surfaced.
My parents, despite their good intentions, made it clear that if I wanted to keep receiving their financial support, I needed to direct my affections toward "a nice girl." Living the life of a hero certainly had its perks, like skipping lines and enjoying complimentary meals, but the pressure of my parents' expectations could feel overwhelming. While some might judge my decision to pursue a relationship with someone I've known for ages as merely convenient, the truth is that Violet had feelings for me for quite some time.
I realized that being with Violet would provide a sense of ease in our partnership, allowing us to navigate the ups and downs without too much hassle. I took care of her needs, ensuring that she never lacked anything, and I did my part by covering the bills. In many ways, it felt like a practical arrangement, one that allowed us both to maintain a semblance of stability in our lives. I must confess that I'd become quite adept at putting on a façade, delivering convincing smiles and uttering "I love you" in a way that felt genuine. While I may not have been head over heels, I managed to keep the peace and fulfill my obligations. In that delicate dance of expectations and reality, I found myself balancing my own desires with the role I've chosen to play in Violet's life.
Ultimately, our arrangement turned out to be advantageous for both of us; we discovered a form of contentment within our respective roles. Although it wasn't the fairy tale romance that many dream of, we adapted to a cozy routine, each meeting the expectations that had been set for us. She, in particular, consistently exceeded those expectations, leaving me to wonder how she truly perceived our relationship. Was it rooted in real affection, or was it simply a matter of convenience for her as well?
Having been friends before, I certainly didn't harbor any hatred towards Violet; I genuinely cared for her. Yet, it had become increasingly effortless to view her with a sense of disdain. The contrast between my situation and the fun I could be having elsewhere weighed heavily on my mind. Instead of enjoying life, I found myself entrenched in this domestic existence, which felt more like a chore than a choice.
As time went on, I couldn't help but reflect on the dynamics of our partnership. While we may have settled into a routine, the underlying questions about our feelings linger. The ease with which I slipped into frustration is a stark reminder of the disconnect between what I envisioned for my life and the reality I was faced with. It's a complex web of emotions, where care and resentment coexist, leaving me to navigate that peculiar chapter of our lives. I wouldn't claim that my feelings for her were love, but there was a sense of ease between us nonetheless.
At last, she stepped out of the bathroom, captivating in a sleek black dress that gracefully hugged her curves and ended just above her knees. Her footwear was nothing short of eye-catching—bold red chunky heels that injected a vibrant splash of color into her outfit, perfectly paired with a matching red jacket that radiated style. She looked absolutely stunning, yet this ensemble was a departure from her usual, more modest wardrobe. Although she appeared ready for a night out, there was a hint of uncertainty in her posture as she stood before me, seemingly searching for my validation.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts, striving to infuse my voice with genuine enthusiasm, even if it felt somewhat forced. With a warm smile, I managed to say, "You look fantastic, mouse. Let's hit the road." The nickname "mouse" had become a cherished term between us, a playful reference to her naturally shy demeanor that often made her feel out of place in social gatherings. It was clear that she found comfort in her own world, preferring the solace of her office or the pages of a good book over the bustling social scene.
In contrast to my more extroverted nature, she often shied away from the spotlight, embodying a quiet charm that was both endearing and intriguing to most. As we approached the car, I gently opened her door, just as I always did, but an unsettling feeling lingered in the back of my mind. The atmosphere was thick with an unusual tension; she seemed to oscillate between anxiety and excitement, a blend that intrigued me. Once I settled into the driver's seat, I began to sift through my thoughts, trying to pinpoint if I had missed any significant event that warranted her mood.
The more I thought about it, the more it dawned on me that today was just an ordinary Tuesday, devoid of any notable significance. Yet, her palpable excitement left me questioning what could be stirring beneath the surface. Perhaps something had transpired at work that she would share with me later, but for now, the mystery hung in the air, making the mundane feel anything but ordinary.
As we merged onto the highway, a wave of urgency washed over me; we were already a few minutes behind schedule. Just when I thought we might recover some of that lost time, we found ourselves trapped in an infuriating traffic jam. This was exactly why I preferred to set out early; the unpredictability of the roads had become a familiar foe, and she understood this all too well. While we sat there, the seconds slipping away, I stole a glance at her, curious about the thoughts swirling in her mind. The glimmer of anticipation in her eyes hinted that this evening was more important than I had initially thought, stirring a blend of curiosity and concern within me about what awaited us.
I had learned long ago that probing into her thoughts was a slippery slope, often leading to a whirlwind of words that barely made sense. When she got caught up in her emotions, her explanations became a rapid-fire barrage, with hardly a pause for breath. It was almost childlike in its intensity, and I found it frustrating; it was undoubtedly one of her least appealing traits. The way her mind raced often left me feeling overwhelmed, and I couldn't help but wish for a clearer line of communication.
More often than not, her thoughts drifted toward the latest weapon she was designing for the Hero's Association. When she spiraled into that state, I knew I had to steer the conversation elsewhere to avoid tuning her out completely. If I didn't, I risked snapping at her out of sheer annoyance, which was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
We reached the restaurant just fifteen minutes later than planned, and a surge of irritation hit me. Yet, I quickly reassured myself that I could navigate through this minor setback. The hostess at the front seemed completely unbothered by our delay; she gracefully escorted us to our table, presented the menus, and asked what we would like to drink. I opted for a glass of wine for each of us and mentioned that I would enjoy a whiskey sour on the rocks after my wine, hoping that a little alcohol might ease my frustration and make the evening more enjoyable.
As we settled into our seats, I took a moment to breathe and let go of the tension that had built up during our late arrival. The ambiance of the restaurant was inviting, with soft lighting and the gentle hum of conversation around us. It was easy to get lost in the atmosphere, and I felt my annoyance begin to dissipate. The hostess returned promptly with our drinks, her warm demeanor adding a touch of comfort to the evening. I raised my glass in a small toast, determined to turn the night around.
With the first sip of wine, I could feel the stress of the day melt away further. The conversation flowed easily between us, and laughter soon filled the air, overshadowing the earlier frustration.
As I casted a glance at Violet, I could see her shifting restlessly in her chair, her excitement almost tangible, as if she were about to explode with joy. After our drinks arrived, we hurriedly placed our food orders, but the mood took a sharp turn once the dishes were laid out before us. Violet's expression shifted dramatically; the happiness that had lit up her face moments ago seemed to vanish, replaced by a look that could only be described as distress or perhaps even disgust, which left me feeling unsettled.
I tried to spark a light-hearted conversation to lift her spirits, but her responses were short and devoid of the usual warmth I had come to expect from her. It was evident that something was weighing heavily on her mind, and I felt an urgent need to confront the issue head-on. I silently hoped that she wouldn't break down in tears, as her crying was something I found incredibly difficult to handle. It stirred a frustration within me that was hard to contain, almost to the point of wanting to lash out at something nearby.
I couldn't understand why a grown woman like her would let emotions take over so easily. It baffled me that tears seemed to be her go-to response, and I found myself grappling with a mix of concern and irritation. I wanted to help her, to understand what was bothering her, but the thought of her crying made me feel like I was on the edge of losing my composure.
Gathering my resolve, I finally decided to confront her about what was troubling her, but the look she gave me was one of sheer disbelief. It felt as though she anticipated that I should already be aware of what was causing her distress, as if I had some kind of mind-reading powers. With a touch of irritation, she asked, "How long have we been together, Griffen?" I paused, sensing the weight of her question, and cautiously replied, "Uh, three years, give or take."
The atmosphere thickened with tension as her question lingered, making it clear that this was far from a simple conversation; it was a crucial juncture that could change the course of our relationship. I could feel the stakes rising, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead gnawed at me. It was a moment that demanded honesty and vulnerability, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a minefield.
As I sat there, I couldn't help but worry about the implications this discussion might have, not just for us but also for my parents. Their opinions and expectations loomed large in my mind, adding another layer of complexity to an already delicate situation
"Exactly!" she nearly shouted, her voice echoing with intensity. A wave of shock washed over me; I couldn't recall ever hearing her raise her voice like that, and if I had, it certainly wasn't out of anger. Her tone was a volatile mix of frustration and disbelief. "We've been together for three years! You brought me to my favorite place, we look amazing together—everyone thinks so—and you even ordered wine, which you never do. This evening is so much more romantic than our previous dates, yet you still don't grasp why I was so thrilled? Don't act oblivious."
As her words lingered in the air, I felt a significant shift; the earlier excitement in her voice had vanished, replaced by a profound sadness that tugged at my heartstrings. It became painfully clear, even to someone as dense as I, that she had been hoping for a proposal. The mere thought sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn't bear the idea of leading her into a commitment I wasn't prepared for, one I didn't even desire. It felt deeply unjust to her.
Even if I did care for her, I couldn't bind her to me in a loveless marriage. She was far superior in so many ways—intelligent, compassionate, and full of life. Meanwhile, I struggled with my own shortcomings, feeling neither smart nor kind. She deserved someone who could offer her the love and commitment she sought, and I knew I was not that person. The weight of that realization pressed heavily on my conscience, leaving me feeling utterly inadequate.