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The lilies were still untouched.
The city outside her window whispered secrets she didn't want to hear—honking taxis, the distant thud of bass from a rooftop party, the occasional flutter of wings against glass.
Inside, only silence.
Adelaide sat at her desk, her body wrapped in an old cashmere sweater that still smelled faintly like Monet's perfume. Her hair was a mess. Her hands were ink-stained. Her eyes were raw.
The voicemail had hollowed her out.
And now, she was trying to fill that emptiness with words she would never say aloud.
She picked up the pen.
Dear Monet, (or maybe: my Monet, but I'm not sure I'm allowed to say that anymore)
I'm writing this because if I try to speak, I'll fall apart. You once told me words could be armor. I think mine might be confessions. Or maybe weapons, if I'm not careful.
I should hate you.
I should delete the voicemail, throw out the flowers, and never look back. But I can't.
Because the truth is— I didn't start fake-dating you just for attention. I didn't agree to the rooftop plan because I thought it would be easy.
I did it because you asked me. And I've always been the kind of girl who says yes to things that hurt later.
But somewhere between the rehearsals and the headlines, something changed. I started waiting for your texts. I started memorizing your perfume. I started wondering if you smiled at anyone else the way you smiled at me.
And then, worst of all—I started hoping.
I hoped you'd keep choosing me. Even when no one was watching. Even when you were scared. Even when it wasn't for show.
But I don't trust easily. And when I saw her with you—I shut down. I told myself I didn't care. That it didn't mean anything. That I knew the rules. But I was lying.
Because it did mean something. Because I think I wanted more. And that's the part that terrifies me.
I want the version of you who kissed me like we weren't pretending. The one who defended me at dinner. The one who whispered my Addie like it meant something.
But if I'm not enough—if this was never enough— then please don't call again.
Because I'll always pick up. And I'm not sure how many more times I can survive it.
