They say time heals all wounds. But they never talk about the scars... or the masks we learn to wear.
For me, the mask became a way of life.
Three years ago, I promised myself never to let anyone close enough to hurt me again. Smiles, small talk, a confident laugh - all part of the act. Behind closed doors? I was still piecing together the fragments of who I used to be.
Until tonight.
The music at the gallery opening was soft, elegant. The kind of place where everyone dressed like they belonged - confident, polished, perfect. I wore my favorite black dress, my crimson lipstick flawless, my eyes lined sharp enough to cut. But none of it made me feel seen.
Then I noticed him.
He wasn't like the others. No fake smile, no empty compliments. Just a steady gaze from across the room - eyes that didn't just look at me... they saw me.
I turned away, reminding myself that I was untouchable. That's how I survived.
But fate, as always, has a wicked sense of humor.
"Is that your real smile... or another mask?" The voice came from behind, rich and smooth like velvet with an edge of danger.
I froze.
Turning slowly, I came face to face with him. Tall, dark eyes, that crooked smile that made my pulse skip. His presence wasn't loud - it was magnetic.
"I don't know you," I replied coolly.
"You will," he promised, offering his hand. "Adrian."
Adrian. His name slipped into the cracks of my defenses like sunlight sneaking through closed curtains.
And in that moment, I knew - the mask I'd worn so perfectly for years? It had finally begun to crack.