He Deserved It

CHAPTER 10 – I Knew

Lia didn’t cry. Not when the video dropped. Not when her face showed up in memes, or when strangers tagged her in stories she didn’t remember being part of.

Not even when Zuri walked into her room, sat on the floor, and waited like they were twelve again.

She hadn’t cried. She couldn’t. Because crying meant admitting it hurt. And hurt meant guilt.

And guilt meant… She knew.

Zuri didn’t speak at first. She just waited.

Lia sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves over her hands. It was his hoodie. The one he left in her car after the night they watched stars from the orchard.

Zuri’s voice was careful, barely there.

“Did you know?”

Lia stared at the carpet. Took a breath.

“Yeah,” she said.

Not all at once. Not with names. Not with receipts. But he told her.

They were walking to the parking lot after class at AMV. Sun hot on the back of her neck. Her sketchbook heavy in her bag. Jordan swung his keys in slow circles. Didn’t look at her when he said it.

“I’m not good at… clean lines.”

“You mean, like, drawing?”

“No. People. Endings.”

She didn’t press. He didn’t lie. That was their thing.

From the beginning, he told her, “I’m not good for you. But I don’t want to lie to you.”

And he didn’t. Not really. He never promised she was the only one. He just made her feel like she was the only one who mattered.

The night he said he loved her, they were parked near the canal. Music low. Windows cracked. Air smelling like grass and distant water. She was sketching on her thigh with a ballpoint pen. He was watching her like he’d never seen her before.

“I love you.”

No buildup. No explanation. Just words dropped like stones.

She looked up, startled. He smiled—tired, soft.

“You don’t have to say it back. I just… I never wanted to lie to you. Not about this.”

She didn’t say it back. She leaned into his chest. Let him kiss her forehead. Stayed until the sky went gray.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than words.

In her room, Zuri picked at a thread in the rug.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lia shrugged. “It didn’t feel like something I was allowed to say.”

Zuri looked up. “But you knew.”

Lia nodded. “He always texted me from the car. Never from home. Never posted me. Never took pictures unless it was on my phone. He gave me pieces. Good pieces. But never all of him.”

Zuri whispered, “That’s not love.”

Lia shook her head. “No. It is. Just… his version.”

With her, Jordan didn’t perform. Didn’t quote poetry. Didn’t dress up. He laughed—real, deep laughs that made his whole body move. He let her trace the scars on his knuckles. Brought her gas station candy and broken pencils he said reminded him of her art.

He watched her draw like it was sacred.

She never asked him to be hers. She just let him be there.

And in return, he gave her the parts he didn’t show anyone else. But not all of him.

“I didn’t want to share him,” Lia said.

Zuri didn’t speak.

“But I didn’t want to make him choose either. Because I knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.”

Zuri’s voice cracked, just barely. “So you just… let it happen?”

Lia nodded. “I thought if I didn’t name it, it wouldn’t break.”

She remembered another time. He told her, “You’re the only part of my life that feels like breathing.”

She wanted that to mean she was different. Maybe she was.

But different didn’t mean safe. Didn’t mean chosen.

Zuri stood. Walked over. Sat beside her.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

Zuri pulled her into a hug. Held her like she meant it.

Lia didn’t cry. But she let herself be held.

He loved her. That part was real. But he didn’t end it. Didn’t draw a line. Didn’t choose. And she hadn’t asked him to. Because some part of her believed love should be enough. Even when it wasn’t whole.

When Zuri left, she kissed Lia’s forehead—just like their mom used to. Then closed the door behind her.

The room was still.

Lia looked at her sketchbook, open on the nightstand. Last week, she’d drawn him. Side profile. Curled smile. Headphones looped around his neck.

She picked up her pencil. Wrote one word at the bottom:

almost.

Then she closed the book. And turned off the light.