He was cold. Emotionless
764 Words
I couldn’t sleep.
Even with the luxury of this massive bed—its plush mattress and silky sheets, the soft hum of the heater filling the silence like a gentle lullaby, and the subtle scent of lavender wafting from the freshly laundered linens—my body refused to settle. The kind of comfort people dream of, and yet I lay there, restless, my thoughts spiraling like a slow-moving storm that refused to pass.
It wasn’t the unfamiliarity of the house or the pressure of starting this new job. No. It was her.
Lila.
Those sad, too-quiet eyes, haunting and hollow like she’d seen too much for someone so small. The way she barely spoke above a whisper. The way her tiny shoulders curled inward as if she was constantly apologizing for taking up space in a world that had no room for her. It was as though she was trying to disappear.
I’d seen shy kids before. Plenty, in fact. Children who took a while to warm up, who needed gentle coaxing before they’d speak or play. But this wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t just about being reserved or cautious.
This was different.
This was the echo of something broken.
I shifted onto my side, curling tighter beneath the thick comforter, sighing into the soft fabric of my pillow. Maybe I was overthinking. Jumping to conclusions. I had only just started here, after all. Maybe Lila was just going through a phase, adjusting to changes I didn’t yet know about. But still… the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edge of my conscience like a splinter I couldn’t ignore.
I’d seen this before—in daycare centers and after-school programs. Quiet kids who flinched when someone raised their voice. Kids who winced at sudden movement or instinctively scanned the room for exits. I’d seen the way their eyes would dart toward the door, toward the adults, toward anything that might indicate danger. I’d seen it, and I knew it.
Because I’d lived it.
My chest tightened at the memory of my own childhood. The invisible wounds. The kind that didn’t leave bruises but never really healed. I knew what it was to feel small and unwanted, to sit in silence, hoping someone might finally see you. I saw it now—in Lila.
She wasn’t just shy. She was scared.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the ornate ceiling, my vision adjusting to the faint moonlight that crept in through the curtains. My mind drifted to Damian Westbrook, Lila’s father. A name that carried weight. A man who carried himself with sharp precision, all tailored suits and clipped tones, as if emotions were inconveniences he couldn’t afford. He didn’t strike me as abusive. Not in the traditional sense. There were no bruises, no shouting matches. Just silence. Cold, cutting silence.
He didn’t see her.
Not really.
Not when she cried after their brief encounter yesterday. Not when her little voice cracked as she asked if he was coming to dinner today after he came from work. He hadn’t even looked at her. His eyes were always somewhere else—on his phone, on his schedule, on everything except the one thing that should have mattered most.
His daughter.
How does a man live in a mansion, dripping in success, with a child so bright and beautiful sitting right in front of him, and still walk around as if the world owed him more? As if he was the one burdened? As if acknowledging her existence was just another task on his ever-growing list?
I felt a knot twist in my stomach. Not from anger. From something deeper. A sorrow that settled heavily in my chest.
Pity.
Not for him. Never for him.
For her.
Lila, with her soft voice and searching eyes. Lila, who barely touched her dinner and then apologized for wasting food. Lila, who tried so hard not to be a problem.
My throat tightened.
He had no idea how lucky he was. He had no clue how many people would give anything to have what he had—to have her.
I reached over and turned off the lamp I’d left on. Darkness swallowed the room, but sleep didn’t come. Not right away. I lay there, my body still, my mind racing.
I couldn’t magically fix what was broken. But I could be here. I could be a constant. A safe place. Maybe even a voice when hers was too quiet to be heard.
And maybe, just maybe, if I was careful enough, gentle enough, she’d start to believe she mattered.
- Writer
