I turned it face down and let it buzz on the table until the battery died.
That evening, Laya sat next to me on the couch, handing me a bowl of noodles like I was a wounded animal that needed simple instructions.
“Eat,” she said. “And talk when you’re ready.”
I wasn’t ready, but I tried.
“I feel like I’m the villain,” I whispered.
“You’re not,” she said immediately.
“But everyone thinks I am.”
She shrugged.
“Everyone only heard his version. People love simple stories. They hate nuance. They want a bad guy to point at.”
“My proposals weren’t about pressure,” I said quietly. “I just loved him and I wanted to build a life together.”
“I know,” she said. “But they don’t.”
Her certainty made my eyes burn.
Later that week, I got a single short text from Adrien.
Can we talk?
My stomach clenched. I stared at the message for a long time before answering.
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