JAY POV — THE THINGS HE NEVER SAID OUT LOUD
The meeting ended clean.
Too clean.
Numbers aligned. Clients satisfied. Decisions made without friction. The kind of meeting that should have left me relieved—but instead left a hollow echo in my chest.
Keifer hadn't said much.
He never did when he was carrying something.
So when I found myself walking toward his office instead of back to mine, it didn't feel like curiosity.
It felt like gravity.
The hallway outside his office was quiet. Glass walls. Soft lighting. That faint, sterile scent of polished wood and ambition.
I knocked once.
No answer.
I pushed the door open.
Empty.
His office was exactly what you'd expect—minimal, controlled, clean lines. Nothing unnecessary. Everything intentional. Even the silence felt curated.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Then, impulsively, I walked around his desk and sat in his chair.
It was… absurdly comfortable.
Like it had been designed to hold weight. Like it expected people to sit in it carrying too much.
I leaned back, exhaled—
—and my hand brushed the edge of the desk drawer.
It wasn't locked.
That alone made my stomach tighten.
Keifer locked everything.
I hesitated.
Then pulled it open.
At first, it looked harmless. Files. A pen. A folded envelope.
Then—
Photos.
My breath caught.
They weren't scattered. They were arranged. Careful. Protected.
One was unmistakable.
Christmas party.
That dress.
The one I'd worn without thinking, without planning—wine-red, soft fabric clinging in ways I'd never intended. I remembered sending him that photo half-laughing, half-daring, expecting nothing more than a teasing reply.
He'd saved it.
Printed it.
Kept it.
My fingers trembled as I lifted another.
Me laughing mid-bite, food in my hand, completely unaware.
Another—Cin's birthday. Me between people, smiling wide, alive.
These weren't stolen moments.
They were cherished ones.
My vision blurred.
"Keifer…" I whispered, throat tight.
Then I saw it.
A small black notebook.
Worn edges. No label.
My heart started pounding.
I knew what it was before I touched it.
I shouldn't have opened it.
I knew that too.
But love doesn't always respect boundaries when pain is bleeding through them.
I opened the diary.
---
Entry — February 14
She didn't text today.
I told myself it was fine. That I deserved the silence.
But the world feels louder without her voice in it.
I closed my eyes.
---
Entry — March 3
I saw her name on a report today.
Just her name. Nothing else.
It took everything not to call her.
I don't trust myself with her anymore.
I don't trust myself without her.
---
My chest ached.
---
Entry — April 19
I dreamed she was laughing again.
Not at me. With me.
Woke up shaking.
---
The pages blurred as tears welled.
Then—
A page that made my hands go cold.
---
Entry — June 7
There are days I think it would be easier to stop waking up.
Not because I want to die.
But because I don't know how to live with the quiet she left behind.
I started the pills today.
Doctor says it's temporary.
Nothing feels temporary.
---
I pressed a hand to my mouth.
Keifer.
---
Entry — July 2
I told myself I'm staying alive because of responsibility.
Because of the company.
Because people need me.
That's a lie.
I'm alive because if I die, she'll think it was her fault.
---
A sob escaped me before I could stop it.
---
Entry — August 11
Father came today.
He mentioned her.
Threatened her.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't hesitate either.
Some men don't deserve to keep breathing if they use love as leverage.
I ended it.
I feel nothing about him.
Only relief that she's safe.
---
My body went numb.
Killed his father.
Not out of rage.
Out of protection.
---
Entry — September 30
The pills make everything dull.
Including the pain.
Including the love.
I hate that.
But I'm afraid if I stop, everything will crash at once.
---
I couldn't breathe properly anymore.
I flipped to the last entry.
---
Entry — May 24
She smiled tonight.
Not for me.
But she smiled.
That has to be enough for now.
---
The diary slipped from my hands and landed softly against the desk.
I was crying openly now.
Not pretty tears. Not quiet ones.
The kind that come from realizing the person you love has been bleeding silently in rooms you never entered.
We had both suffered.
Separately.
Thinking we were sparing each other.
I wiped my face quickly, panic rising.
He couldn't see this.
I carefully placed the diary back. The photos. Exactly how they were.
I stood.
Turned toward the door.
And froze.
Keifer stood there.
Hand still on the handle.
Eyes locked on me.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Terrified.
"Jay…" he breathed.
I didn't think.
I crossed the room in three steps and wrapped my arms around him with everything I had.
He stiffened for half a second.
Then broke.
His arms came around me tight—like he was holding onto something that might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.
I buried my face in his chest.
"I'm here," I whispered, voice shaking. "I'm here. I didn't know. I'm so sorry you were alone."
His breath shuddered.
"I never wanted you to see that," he said hoarsely. "I never wanted you to carry it."
I pulled back just enough to look at him.
Tears rimmed his eyes. Unashamed. Unhidden.
"You don't get to decide that alone," I said softly. "You don't get to suffer quietly and call it love."
He laughed weakly. "I thought that was the point."
"No," I said, pressing my forehead to his. "The point is surviving together."
He closed his eyes.
"I was afraid," he admitted. "That if you knew how dark it got… you'd leave."
I shook my head, tears slipping free.
"I'm not afraid of your darkness," I whispered. "I've lived in my own. I'm afraid of losing you to it."
His arms tightened.
For a long moment, we just stood there—breathing, grounding, real.
No speeches.
No promises.
Just presence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.
"I'm still taking the pills," he said. "I'm still trying."
I nodded. "Good. And you're not doing it alone anymore."
He kissed my hair gently.
And for the first time—
The pain didn't feel like something that would swallow us whole.
It felt like something we could survive.
Together.