“It’s longer,” I murmur.
And it is.
In all the time I’ve known Cece, her hair has never grown past that precise pixie length. Even old pictures from before we dated showed the same meticulous cut.
Intentional.
Maintained.
Her brows pull together faintly, like she’s trying to think through fog. Then she gingerly touches the loose strands near her temple. “Longer.” She blinks slowly. “I… I missed my salon appointment.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because Cece never misses appointments.
Her routines are practically stitched into her. Every detail of her life is carefully structured and polished.
And now, eventhishas slipped away from her.
It’s such a small thing. But suddenly it feels deafening.
“Let’s rebook it,” I say gently. “Unless you want to grow it out—”
She shakes her head immediately. “No. Let’s rebook it.” Her voice drifts weakly. “It’s hard to maintain. Short hair is easier. Otherwise I’ll just… forget.”
My chest caves inward. Because I know what she’s really saying. Cece’s entire life has been built around presentation. Around poise. Around keeping herself composed and immaculate with as little visible effort as possible.
The Wentworth version of perfection. The Astor’s version of imposition.
And now, that effort is also slipping through her fingers. I don’t want to read too deeply into it, or at least show her my unwavering examination. But I can’t ignore it anymore either. I’m certain now.
She’s in a depressive episode.
“Okay,” I say softly, brushing my thumb against her jaw. “I’ll book it for you.”
“Okay,” she mumbles quietly, almost reluctantly.
Okay.
Rebook it.
Longer.
Her choice of words isn’t going unnoticed. She’s repeating a lot of what I’m saying instead of putting effort into forming the words she clearly wants to say.
Because eventhatfeels exhausting to her.
God, it hurts to see her this lost.
Like she’s clawing her way through something invisible—either trying desperately to stay afloat or slowly letting herself sink beneath it.
But the one thing that settles inside me with terrifying clarity is the thing I’m most afraid to voice.
That she won’t go through it alone.
I don’t care if this version of Cece feels unfamiliar sometimes. I don’t care if she’s quieter. Sadder. Harder to reach.
She’s still Cece.
My Cece.
