Page 7 of Ruin Me Gently

“Nothing,” I said.

“Sure. Nothing.” She echoed, tucking a strand of copper hair behind her ear. “You’ve been zoning out like crazy lately. And don’t even try to blame work, it’s been quiet for weeks.”

I took a slow sip of wine, hoping she’d drop it if I stayed quiet long enough. She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. She was like a dog with a bone when shethought something was off. She’d gnaw at it, dig it up, and drag it into the light, wagging her tail the whole damn time.

That’s how she’d been from the moment I’d met her atSonnets & Spines—the bookstore I worked at. She’d been there first, practically part of the furniture, and within minutes of my first shift, she’d decided we were going to be best friends before I’d even had the chance to figure out how to introduce myself.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, eyes widening. “You’re pregnant.”

“Ew. Hell no.” I grimaced, tipping my glass toward her before taking a long, slow sip.

She snorted. “Okay, fine. Did you get married in secret and not invite me?”

“Molly,” I groaned.

“What? It’s a fair question. People do weird shit when they’re in love.”

The words hit something uncomfortable in my chest. I wasn’t in love with him. Not yet. At least, I didn’t think I was. I’d know if I loved him, right?

“Okay, so it’s not work. It’s not a secret marriage. And it’s definitely not a baby—thank God.”

“Right?” I muttered.

“So then…” her voice trailed off, expression shifting slightly. “Did Clark cheat?”

I almost choked. “Jesus, no!”

“Okay, so what is it then?”

“Nothing, honestly. I’m fine.”

I adjusted myself against the couch cushions, wincing as a dull ache rippled beneath my skin. I wasn’t fine. I could say it a hundred different ways, dress it up in tired smiles and empty reassurances, but the truth was lodged too deep in my viscera to ignore. My body felt more like a collection of hidden bruises than flesh and bone, a patchwork of pain stitched together by exhaustion.

I was miserable.

Every inch of me ached in ways I couldn’t talk about. It wasn’t just the physical pain—the lingering soreness from too-tight grips and words that cut deeper than fingers ever could. It was the exhaustion, the weight of keeping it all in, of pretending that I was okay when really, I was unravelling, thread by thread.

I shifted again, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one. Not when the pain wasn’t just under my skin—but buried deep in my marrow.

I flicked my gaze back to the TV, pretending to focus on the scene playing out on the screen.

“Lilith.” She was staring at me now, eyes narrowed, waiting.

I exhaled and forced a smile. “I’m fine, honestly. I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push, she just sighed, tapping her fingernail against the rim of the glass. “You’d tell me though, right? If something was wrong? If you needed me in any way?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Liar.

I wanted to tell her. I think. But where the hell would I even start?

How could I explain that I’d spent so much time convincing everyone—convincingmyself—that Clark was good, that we were happy, only to realise I’d been lying the whole time? That I’d built him up so high in my head, admitting the truth now felt like tearing down my own foundation?

I was embarrassed. Ashamed.

---