"Damn. Come in."
I stepped inside, and the familiar chaos of May's world wrapped around me like a hug. Stretched canvases leaned against every wall. Half-finished paintings and open jars of paint cluttered every surface. Music hummed low from a speaker in the corner, something French and soft. We didn't say anything at first. She just handed me a chipped black mug filled with bitter coffee and sat cross-legged on the floor, working on a portrait of a sleeping cat.
"You okay?" she asked eventually. Not like a demand. More like a nudge.
I stared into my mug, fingers wrapped tight around the warmth.
"Do you think... do you think I'll ever be attractive enough to be loved by a man?"
She didn't gasp or freeze. She just sighed.
"I knew something was going on," she said gently. "I've been waiting for you to talk. I respect that you didn't want to. But if it's about a guy..." She looked up at me, paint streaked across her cheek. "He's a damn fool."
I swallowed hard.
"No. No one called me ugly. He just... he doesn't love me back."
I felt the tears building again. "Please don't ask me to explain more."
She took another breath, softer this time.
"Okay. So maybe he doesn't love you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But what makes you think that has anything to do with your looks?"
I didn't answer.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," she whispered.
And then she smiled, eyes lighting up like only May's could.
"Actually... youcan.I'm going to paint you. Like one of those French models."
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I'm serious. I want to paint you. I want you to see the softness in your collarbone, the curve of your shoulders, the way your eyes hold entire galaxies when you're not trying to hide."
"...You've lost your mind if you think I'm going to pose nude for you."
She laughed, full and unbothered.
"Who said anything about nude? I meant clothed. Mostly." She winked. "Unless youwantto go full 'Titanic,' in which case, I'll get my charcoal pencils." Despite myself, I laughed too. A real laugh—sharp and sudden and slightly watery. Maybe I wasn't ready to be loved. But maybe I was ready to be seen.
Chapter 3: Almost Love
After the morning with May, I felt... lighter. Not healed, not whole, but held.
We laughed about nothing for hours. She painted a blue streak into my hair "for courage" and said it matched my soul. We called some of the girls—March nearly choked on her tea when June told a story about dating a mime. It was chaos. It was perfect. For a little while, I forgot.
By the time I got home, something in me had shifted. I realized I needed to let go. Not of Ryder. But of the parts of me that kept waiting to be chosen.
Later that evening, he called.
"Hey," his voice hummed through the phone. "Mind if I stop by?" It was late, but I said yes anyway. I always do.
We don't live together, even though I suggested it once. Casually. Gently. He looked uncomfortable and said, "We've only been together a few months, December. Isn't it a bit soon?"
It made sense. Rationally. But emotionally, it stung. Especially since he already spent more nights in my apartment than his own. Still, I handed him a key anyway. Just in case. Because I wanted him to want to stay. He used it that night.
When he walked in, I was curled up on the couch, reading. The light from the lamp caught the tiredness in his face, but he smiled the second he saw me.
