The world did not fall apart in great, thunderous collapses. It shattered in quiet, cruel silences.
Desdemona did not scream. She did not weep in front of him. She did not send a single word.
She simply vanished—from his days, from his messages, from the spaces they used to fill together with laughter and glances.
The morning after Elara's unintentional unveiling, the school wore an unfamiliar chill. The halls, once filled with their shared whispers and brushes of closeness, now echoed with absence.
She passed him in the corridor without a glance.
Her gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable.
He stood there, still, with his fingers twitching as though they wanted to reach for her, to grasp some invisible thread still tethered between them. But there was nothing. Just air. Just pain.
When the next chapter of The House of Wintering Souls was published, he poured his heart into the message folded carefully within its pages—an apology, simple and raw.
I'm sorry.
Days passed with no response.
Then, with growing desperation gnawing at him, he wrote again in the following chapter's note:
Please, speak to me.
Still, silence.
Other readers noticed the change. Comments appeared in the margins—whispers of concern, questions about the sorrow in his words, the weight behind his apologies—but none from her. None from WildOrchid.
He waited, hoping that among the sea of voices, her familiar handwriting would appear, bringing the one reply he longed for.
But the page remained blank.
She had once screamed with joy because of his stories. Now, all he felt was the hollow echo of unanswered words.
By the second day, it began to hurt like something physical. He walked the school's stone path with his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes drifting, searching for ginger hair among the crowd.
She was there, of course. Laughing with a friend, but it was not her real laugh. He could tell. She was playing a role now. One he had pushed her into.
When their eyes did meet, it was by accident. Brief. But the glance was sharper than any blade he could've imagined.
By the third day, the silence grew teeth.
She entered the library just as he was leaving. He stopped, unsure, awkward. She walked past him, close enough to feel the brush of her sleeve, and said nothing.
But then, halfway through the aisle of books, she turned.
"Was it all a joke to you?" she asked, voice low, trembled like a wind-swept candle.
He froze.
"What?"
She faced him now, cheeks flushed, eyes glistening. "All this time, you knew. You knew how much I loved that story. How much I poured into it—my time, my thoughts, my excitement. I told you things I've never told anyone, and you—" Her voice caught. "You were the person behind it the whole time."
He took a step forward. "Des—"
"You let me scream about you to you," she said bitterly. "You watched me smile like a fool, get excited like a child, and you just… stayed quiet."
"I was scared."
"Of what? That I wouldn't like you anymore if I found out?"
He looked down. "That it would make everything feel fake."
She laughed bitterly. "It already does."
The library air turned heavy, musty with tension and unsaid things.
"I wanted you to see me without the words," he said softly. "Without the author. Just… me."
"You don't get to choose what I fall for," she whispered. "It was already both."
He looked up, startled.
But she was already walking away.
That night, he did not write.
The ink lay dry, the quill untouched. His thoughts swirled like a tempest, crashing over him with regret, confusion, and a desperate longing he could neither name nor tame.
Hunger slipped away from him, and the food on his plate remained cold and ignored. His mother watched him from across the table, worry creasing her brow.
Finally, after a long silence, she spoke gently, her voice steady but filled with concern.
"What weighs on you so heavily, my son?"
He hesitated, the words caught in his throat like a bitter knot. But the quiet in the room gave him courage, and slowly, he spoke. He told her about Desdemona—about the growing chasm between them, the secret he carried like a shadow, and the crushing fear that revealing it might shatter what fragile connection they still had.
His mother listened, her eyes softening with understanding. When he finished, she reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder—a simple touch, but one that grounded him.
"Love," she said softly, "is not a story to be hidden behind, nor a secret to be locked away. It is a truth that must be spoken, even when it scares you."
Her words hung in the air, gentle but unwavering.
He nodded, but inside, the ache remained.
She had fallen for his words long before she ever saw his face.
And now, he was terrified she might turn away from the face that had been hidden behind those very words all along.