The message came on a quiet night.
Marcus: Come over. Let's talk about your fees.
My heart hesitated.
He didn't say I'll help you — he said let's talk.
But I was too tired to argue with words that looked like hope.
So I went.
Not because I trusted him,
but because I was running out of choices.
The room smelled like perfume and memory.
He smiled the way people do when they already know what you came for.
"Sit," he said softly, "you look tired."
I nodded, forcing a smile. "I've been studying."
He laughed under his breath. "Always studying. Always fighting the world alone."
I didn't know how to respond, so I just looked away.
Then his tone shifted — lower, sharper.
"You know… nothing is really free, Elena."
My heart sank.
"What do you mean?"
He stepped closer, eyes glinting with that same look that once felt safe.
"Let's stop pretending," he whispered. "You need help. I can give it. But I want something too."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
It was like every word carried the weight of all my fears —
that no one ever really helped without wanting to own a piece of you.
I whispered, "I thought you cared."
"I do," he said, smiling faintly. "That's why I'm being honest."
Something inside me cracked — not loud, just enough to make everything blurry.
My pride screamed no, but my circumstances whispered what choice do you have?
And that was the moment I realized —
desperation sounds a lot like silence.
I left his place feeling smaller than I'd ever felt.
He promised he'd send the money.
He didn't.
Two days later, my inbox was full of unsent messages.
I texted him again and again.
No reply.
Not even a seen.
I sat in the dark, hands trembling, whispering to no one,
"This world doesn't reward the good-hearted. It just tests them till they break."
And then, just when I'd accepted that the story was over —
Nathan's name appeared on my screen.
Nathan: Hey, I've been meaning to call. You okay?
I stared at it for minutes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Now?
After the storm had already swallowed me?
Tears burned my eyes as I typed and deleted, typed and deleted again.
Because how do you explain the kind of pain that didn't start from hate —
but from love arriving too late?
That night, I lay on my bed, watching the ceiling shadows shift,
and said to myself,
"Maybe love isn't for me. Maybe it's just a story I keep rewriting —
hoping one day it ends differently."
But deep down, a small voice still whispered —
Maybe it's not love that hurts. Maybe it's who we keep giving it to.