Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 8

But her voice hitches. Just slightly.

She doesn’t look at me.

And that’s how I know she’s lying.

Because I see the way her fingers still against the page. I see the way her body tightens, like she’s bracing herself. I see the way she flinches, not from disgust, not from dismissal, but from recognition. Like something inside her just slipped, and she’s scrambling to catch it before it falls out where I can see it.

And I do.

I see it all.

The way her gaze lingers on my mouth when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The way her laughter comes a beat too late, like her thoughts had gone somewhere else entirely. The way her knee bumps mine and she doesn’t pull away.

She’s trying so hard to pretend.

And I let her. For now.

Because I know what pretending looks like.

I’ve done it for years.

But for the first time, I’m starting to see through the cracks. Not just hers, mine too.

And sitting here, across from her, everything golden in the light between us, I realize something terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

I don’t just want her to fall.

I want her to land somewhere safe.

With me.

Because even in the middle of her laughter, light and breathy like wind chimes swaying in warm breeze, something would flicker.

Something not quite right.

I saw it.

I saw the way her eyes sometimes drifted, not toward anything or anyone, but inward, toward something far away, tucked into a part of her mind she didn’t want to visit. Her gaze would fix on nothing, but I could feel her slipping from me, just for a second. Like a radio station switching frequencies, and her smile suddenly didn’t match the silence behind her eyes.

She would snap back quickly, almost like it never happened. A quiet, awkward smile tugging at her lips, tight, practiced, like she’d done it a thousand times before. The kind of smile people give when they’re trying not to fall apart in public.

And then, her hands.

So delicate, always moving, tapping her pen, adjusting her bracelet, tucking stray hairs behind her ear like it gave her something to do. But I noticed the slight tremble. A near-invisible shake. Like her body was trying to release what her mind refused to say out loud.

Once, her eyes glistened. Just for a moment. No tears fell. But they were there, caught in that fragile space where emotion teeters on the edge of expression. She blinked fast, and the shine disappeared. I pretended not to see it.

But I did.

God, I did.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t mention it. I didn’t reach out or press her with soft questions. Instead, I just smiled at her. Gentle. Unshaken. Steady.

I smiled the way I hoped someone would smile at me on the nights I didn't know how to speak.

And I prayed that, maybe, she'd see the safety in it.

That maybe, just maybe, my silence would say, I’m here. Even if you’re not ready.

She flipped another page, her voice softening when she read a line aloud, and I could tell she wasn’t really there.