She told herself not to hope.
But every time he looked at her—really looked—something inside Lena dared to bloom.
It started with small things.A quiet text reply.A dry remark that made her laugh.The way he didn't ignore her when others did.The way he never pushed her away.
He wasn't warm, no. Ethan Cross wasn't the type to offer smiles or flattery. But he allowed her near. And in a world where everyone else made her feel like she didn't belong, that felt like love.
Or close enough to pretend.
She filled the silence between them with messages. Short ones. Silly ones. Pictures of her cat curled into a scarf. A snapshot of a coffee shop sign that misspelled "latte." He rarely replied with more than a sentence.
But on the nights he did, she couldn't sleep.
When he left early from dinners, she felt empty.
When he turned his head while she spoke, she spent days wondering what she'd said wrong.
Still, she went where he went.
She turned down jobs so she could be there at Chloe's gatherings. She took late trains, wore borrowed dresses, painted smiles across her face. She made herself cheerful, soft, uncomplaining.
Because she knew what they thought of her.
The small-time actress clinging to a man too far out of reach.
A background extra trying to rewrite her role into something more.
She tried not to let it show.Tried not to let him see it.
But Chloe saw.
And Chloe helped.
"You talk more. You smile more. You look like you're dreaming again." her best friend said one evening as they got ready together.
Lena looked down at her reflection, smoothing the hem of her dress.
"I don't know if that's a good thing."
Chloe frowned but didn't argue. "I'll make sure he notices you tonight."
"Chloe—"
"I'm serious. You always hold back when it comes to love. Let someone hold you for once."
The words stuck with Lena as the night unfolded.
She kept close to Ethan, as always. He didn't reach for her, but he didn't push her away either. When someone asked if they came together, he didn't correct them. When her hand brushed his, he didn't move.
Maybe, just maybe, she thought…
This could be something.
But weeks passed, and nothing changed.
She still chased. Still texted first. Still tried to make herself smaller and shinier at the same time.
It had been half a year.
And still, no real progress.
She kept telling herself that love was slow. That people like Ethan took time. That her patience would be rewarded.
But something inside her began to fray.
Because she knew what people whispered.
That she was chasing after a man who had no plans to catch her.
That she was wasting time she didn't have, pouring hope into a glass that never filled.
And worse—she began to believe them.
At night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline.
Why hasn't he messaged back?
Did I say too much?
Am I not enough?
She hated that she cared so much. Hated that her pride—once solid, unshakable—now wavered under the weight of unanswered texts and long, empty silences.
But she loved him.
Or thought she did.
Or needed to believe she did.
Because if this wasn't love…Then what was she doing?
What was she giving up her future for?
One night, she stared at her reflection in the mirror after another party where she stood beside him, smiling for no one, adored by no one.
What's wrong with me? Why does my heart hurt now? I've endured far worse.
She gripped the sink until her knuckles turned white. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. But mostly, she wanted him to turn his head and say her name.
He never did.