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379 Words
Chapter Eleven: “Things He Doesn’t Say”
She wasn’t sure why she came back.
Maybe it was the way Arinze didn’t flood her with praise after she sent her first few pages — just a quiet “This is honest. Keep going.”
Maybe it was the way he never mentioned Kenzo. Or Lara. Or the scandal that defined her for too long.
Or maybe…
It was the way she felt safe in his office. Like grief could stretch without being judged for taking up space.
“Tea?” he asked, already pouring.
“Always,” she replied with the smallest smile.
They sat by the window this time — not across the desk like client and editor, but beside each other. Same height. Same eye level.
She sipped. He waited.
Finally, she asked, “Do you think I’m dragging it out? This pain? I mean, people move on faster.”
Arinze didn’t answer right away.
He turned his mug slowly, thinking.
Then, “You’re grieving the death of something that never got a funeral.”
That made her breath catch.
He looked at her — not with pity, but knowing.
“They betrayed you publicly,” he said softly. “But your healing? That’s private. It takes longer. And it doesn’t follow anyone’s timeline but your own.”
She looked down, blinking hard.
“I hate that they’re happy.”
“That’s human.”
“I don’t want to hate them forever.”
“That’s healing.”
Silence filled the room like music.
Jasmine looked at him — really looked.
Dark brown eyes. Quiet strength. He wasn’t beautiful in the i********: sense — no flash, no curated angles — but there was something deeply true about him.
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.
Arinze nodded.
“Have you ever been betrayed like that?”
He held her gaze for a moment.
Then said, “Yes. But my story didn’t go viral.”
He didn’t say more.
He didn’t need to.
And for the first time in ages, Jasmine didn’t feel like the only person bleeding in a room full of smiles.
There was someone else here who knew what the wound felt like.
And maybe, just maybe…
She wasn’t as alone as she thought.
- Writer
