Bullied Elara was never Invisible

Chapter Three - The Silent Savour

There’s a kind of courage that comes from heartbreak.

Or maybe it’s recklessness. I haven’t figured out which one I’m wearing like perfume tonight.

The bar was crowded, pulsing with cheap neon lights and the bass of music that vibrated through the walls and into my bones. I shouldn’t have come, but my feet had wandered here like they had a mind of their own. Maybe I wanted to forget. Or maybe I just wanted to remember who I was before I let someone like Jaxon define me.

I wore the tight black dress I used to avoid—the one that clung to every curve, every inch of softness I had. My hair was curled, lashes heavy, lips painted a shade of rebellion. I danced like I didn’t care who was watching.

Except... they were watching.

I could feel it—eyes like lasers on my back, whispers slicing through the music like static.

"She shouldn’t be wearing that."

“Someone’s feeling confident tonight.”

“Isn’t that Jaxon’s ex?”

“The fat one?”

I spun on the dance floor, trying to drown it all out. But it was no use. Every stare was a scalpel. Every laugh pressed into me like bruises I couldn’t cover.

The burn of tequila wasn’t enough to numb it.

I found my way to the bar and ordered another drink. Then another. And another.

The bartender hesitated the third time, eyebrows raised. “You sure, sweetheart?”

I smiled too widely. “Does it look like I’m here to sip water?”

He slid the glass to me, and I downed it like salvation.

But it didn’t save me.

Nothing did.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor bottles. My lipstick was smudged. My cheeks flushed. My body—still the same. No matter how much I danced, no matter how hard I tried to forget, I was still me.

Still the girl he didn’t want.

“I just want someone who takes care of themselves, El. You know… maybe someone a little more fit. We’re not kids anymore.”

His words replayed like a broken record, cruel and clear. He used to say I was beautiful. That my body was art. Then one day, that art became a mess to him. A burden. Something to hide behind sunglasses and forced smiles.

I slid off the stool and stumbled. The room tilted and spun like a carousel on speed. Laughter echoed in my ears—was it real or in my head? I didn’t know. Didn’t care.

I tried to make it to the door, gripping the wall for balance. I heard someone mutter something about “a drunk cow trying to walk in heels” and it pierced right through me.

My legs gave out.

And just as my knees buckled, strong arms caught me.

Everything blurred.

I looked up, but my vision swam. A face in shadow. A jawline. The scent of something earthy, familiar but not overwhelming. Whoever he was, he didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arm around me and guided me out of the bar.

I remember the cold air hitting my face like a slap. I remember the distant thrum of traffic. I leaned into him—whoever he was—because he was solid, steady, quiet. Not like the rest of them. Not like the ones who laughed and whispered and looked at me like I was a punchline.

“Where do you live?” he asked softly.

I told him. Somehow.

He didn’t judge me. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask questions.

He just walked me home, keeping one arm securely around my waist, supporting me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t some joke to be passed around in whispers and stares.

I don’t remember unlocking the door. I barely remember the creak of it opening. All I remember is the warmth of his hand as he helped me inside, easing me onto the couch like I was made of glass.

I blinked up at him, vision foggy but heart racing.

“I…” My voice was a rasp. “Thank you. I don’t know your name…”

He crouched down beside me, his face still mostly in shadow. I saw the curve of his lips—serious, unreadable.

“You don’t need to know it yet,” he said.

“Yet?” I whispered, confused.

But he was already standing. Already walking toward the door.

“Wait,” I mumbled, sitting up too fast. The room tilted again. “Who are you?”

No answer.

Just the click of the door closing behind him.

Gone.

Just like that.

I sat there in stunned silence, the remnants of alcohol and heartbreak warring in my veins.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something unfamiliar.

Safe.