The Venus To My Mars
- Reads 675
- Votes 68
- Parts 9
Ongoing1h 23m
Last published Sat, Nov 12, 2022
(Just another measly addition to the thousands of wonderful Romance stories on this platform)
--×--
Hera Scott, 25.
A budding dubbing artist, with a love of space, quoting people (?) and all things artistic, except for her own body.
Leon Allen, 27.
A new, experienced colleague, originally not interested in this work-field but forced into it, with a mask of smugness barely holding back his rage towards everyone who did him wrong.
They have a new project to work on together; dubbing a 'Hentai' series.
She expectedly falls for him after some time but he doesn't believe in the concept of love due to a harsh ending to his first shot at what could have been it.
--×--
"Love is just a system for getting someone to call you darling after sex." This smarty-pants just quoted Julian Barnes like I wouldn't notice. He tried so hard to convince me but I believed otherwise. What else do you expect from someone who grew up reading Wattpad novels and fan-fictions with the perfect male leads written by female authors?
"See? That shut you up, didn't it? You cannot possibly make a point to counter what I just-" He kept on rambling while I focused on remembering that specific quote by John Suckling. And then it appeared like a deer infront of my train of thoughts. I took a deep breath, and with wide eyes I started-
"LOVE IS THE FART OF EVERY HEART. IT PAINS A MAN WHEN 'TIS KEPT CLOSE, AND OTHERS DOTH OFFEND, WHEN 'TIS LET LOOSE." I bellowed at the top of my voice, my throat on fire by the end of this excerpt.
Wow. I really just said that.
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#681
narcissism
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I was thirteen the first time someone told me I talked like I was broken. Not stupid. Not mute. Just... broken. Like my mouth was a machine with missing parts and no one had the patience to wait while I found them. Every syllable was a landmine. My tongue seized, breath caught, throat locked like it was trying to save me from humiliation-only making it worse. When I did speak? People squirmed. Looked away. Finished my sentences like they were doing me a favor. Teachers got frustrated. My father spoke for me at interviews. My mother apologized for me at dinners. So I learned to stay quiet. Silence was safer. Cleaner. By eighteen, I had mastered it. Lived inside it. Until her. She found me in the library, fumbling over the word borrow. I couldn't say it. She could've looked away. Instead, she smiled. "Take your time," she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Iris. Paint-stained fingers. Worn-out shoes. Two jobs. Still made time to sit with me, showing me how to breathe through the stutter-not over it. Not around it. Through it. She treated me like I wasn't fragile. Like I was whole. And slowly-I changed. I began speaking in full sentences. Started holding eye contact. I could introduce myself at business events without trembling. And finally "fit" to inherit my father's name. I became the heir my parent always wanted. And when it came time to choose a wife-an arranged match-I said yes. Not because I loved her. Because she was easy. Perfect in public. Iris didn't fit that world. And I didn't realize I'd cut out the best part of myself until she was gone. She just left. Quietly. Like she'd expected it. Now, I hear her absence louder than I ever heard her voice. But I'll find her. And I'll say what I should've said from the start. Even if it takes a thousand broken words- I'll make her hear me. Cover photo courtesy of Vecteezy.com
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𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 | 𝟏𝟖+
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I was thirteen the first time someone told me I talked like I was broken. Not stupid. Not mute. Just... broken. Like my mouth was a machine with missing parts and no one had the patience to wait while I found them. Every syllable was a landmine. My tongue seized, breath caught, throat locked like it was trying to save me from humiliation-only making it worse. When I did speak? People squirmed. Looked away. Finished my sentences like they were doing me a favor. Teachers got frustrated. My father spoke for me at interviews. My mother apologized for me at dinners. So I learned to stay quiet. Silence was safer. Cleaner. By eighteen, I had mastered it. Lived inside it. Until her. She found me in the library, fumbling over the word borrow. I couldn't say it. She could've looked away. Instead, she smiled. "Take your time," she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Iris. Paint-stained fingers. Worn-out shoes. Two jobs. Still made time to sit with me, showing me how to breathe through the stutter-not over it. Not around it. Through it. She treated me like I wasn't fragile. Like I was whole. And slowly-I changed. I began speaking in full sentences. Started holding eye contact. I could introduce myself at business events without trembling. And finally "fit" to inherit my father's name. I became the heir my parent always wanted. And when it came time to choose a wife-an arranged match-I said yes. Not because I loved her. Because she was easy. Perfect in public. Iris didn't fit that world. And I didn't realize I'd cut out the best part of myself until she was gone. She just left. Quietly. Like she'd expected it. Now, I hear her absence louder than I ever heard her voice. But I'll find her. And I'll say what I should've said from the start. Even if it takes a thousand broken words- I'll make her hear me. Cover photo courtesy of Vecteezy.com
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