Hold Me When It Hurts

THE SMILE I DIDN'T MEAN

Adrian’s POV

I’ve gotten used to pretending.

People think I’m the kind of guy who has it all figured out. I know because they tell me. They say I’m easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to be around. And they’re not wrong — I can be all those things. I’ve learned how to be.

But none of them ever notice when I’m tired.

None of them notice when the smile doesn’t reach my eyes.

No one ever really looks long enough to see anything past what they want to see.

Except her.

I didn’t know her name until today. But I’ve seen her before — always sitting under that tree like she was almost trying to disappear. Not in a dramatic way. It was more like she didn’t feel the need to perform for the world. She didn’t need to be seen.

And that’s probably why I noticed her.

Everyone else is always trying too hard.

I wasn’t planning to go over to her today. I was actually in the middle of a conversation with Mark and the others, laughing at some joke I didn’t even hear. My laugh sounded real though — it always does. You learn to make it real enough that no one asks questions.

But somewhere between the noise and the pointless conversation, I caught sight of her.

She wasn’t doing anything special. Just sitting there, head slightly down, fingers on her notebook like it was a lifeline. Her expression was calm, too calm. And her eyes — even from afar — looked heavy. Like she’d seen too much, felt too much, held too much.

And something in me just… shifted.

I don’t know why. I don’t have a good reason. Maybe it was just the way the morning light hit her hair. Maybe it was the quiet around her. Or maybe it was because the way she looked at the world felt familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.

All I know is the conversation around me suddenly meant nothing.

So I walked away from it.

I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I didn’t give myself time to talk myself out of it.

If I had, I probably would’ve stayed where I was — laughing too loudly, pretending too well.

But instead, I went to her.

She didn’t look up when I approached. She didn’t seem startled. It was like she already knew I was there. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I asked.

Her answer came quick — flat — guarded.

“You can.”

Not exactly welcoming. Not rude either. Just… careful.

She’s the kind of person who builds walls quietly.

No bricks, no noise — just distance.

I didn’t mind.

I’ve built walls too.

We sat in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable silence — just… silence. The kind that makes you aware of your own heartbeat.

When I finally spoke, it wasn’t because I needed to talk.

It was because I wanted to understand her.

“I’ve seen you here before.”

“I’m always here,” she said.

There was something in the way she said it — not defensive, not proud. Just honest. Like she wasn’t hiding who she was. Just choosing not to give pieces away freely.

“Why?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It’s quiet.”

That made me smile.

Not the smile everyone else gets.

A real one — the kind I don’t use often.

“I like quiet,” I said.

She looked up then — just long enough for our eyes to meet.

And I swear there was something there.

Recognition.

Not of me, but of pain.

She knows it.

The same way I do.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

There was a pause — a hesitation. Like giving her name meant giving something away.

“Liana.”

Liana.

Pretty. Soft. But not weak.

I liked it.

“I’m Adrian.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

That made me laugh under my breath. She didn’t try to impress. She didn’t try to charm. She didn’t try to make the interaction easier.

She just existed.

Authentic. Unfiltered. Raw.

Do you have any idea how rare that is?

“You don’t talk much, do you?” I asked.

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

God.

She was interesting.

And I haven’t been interested in anyone in a long time.

“I think that means you have a lot to say,” I told her.

Her eyes flickered — just slightly. Like I had touched something she didn’t expect anyone to notice.

I wanted to ask more.

I wanted to stay longer.

I wanted to sit there with her until the silence finally spoke.

But then I heard my name being called.

Reality. The world. All the noise I had walked away from.

I stood, but I didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked.

She didn’t think long.

“Yes.”

And that one word did something to me I don’t know how to articulate.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

Adrian’s POV

(continuing seamlessly)

The next morning came too quickly.

I didn’t sleep much. I don’t usually, but last night was worse. My mind felt loud. Heavy. Like it was trying to tell me something I wasn’t ready to hear. I kept seeing her sitting under that tree, the way her fingers rested on her notebook like it was something she needed to hold herself together.

I kept seeing the way she didn’t try to impress me.

That’s rare. People always want something — attention, approval, validation.

But she didn’t ask for anything. She was just… there.

I wasn’t used to wanting to be seen by someone who didn’t ask to see me.

I got up before sunrise. Took a shower I didn’t need. Stared at my reflection longer than necessary. I looked the same — controlled, put-together, the version of me I know how to perform.

The version that never cracks.

If I’m being honest, I don’t really know who the real me is anymore. I’ve worn this mask so long that I think my face has shaped itself around it.

But something about yesterday—about her—felt like a c***k forming.

I left for school early. Too early. I pretended it was for no reason. I pretended I didn’t know where my feet were taking me.

But I did.

I walked to the courtyard.

And she was already there.

She sat the same way—head down, notebook open, hair falling slightly forward. Except today, there was a small difference.

Her shoulders looked heavier.

Not tired— burdened.

It bothered me that I could notice something like that after only one conversation. Maybe I shouldn’t have noticed. Maybe I shouldn’t care.

But I did.

I approached slowly, not wanting to startle her. Not wanting to break whatever quiet world she lived in. I stopped in front of her, and for a moment, I just… looked at her.

Not in the way people look at something beautiful.

But in the way you look at something familiar.

“Hey,” I said softly.

She looked up—not quickly, not startled—just a slow lift of her eyes, like she had been expecting something to pull her back to the surface.

“Hi,” she said.

One syllable. But her voice sounded different today.

Thinner. Like something inside her had cracked overnight.

I sat beside her. Same distance as before. Not too close. Not too far.

She didn’t ask why I came.

I liked that.

“I thought about you yesterday,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flickered—surprise first, then something like hesitation, then something I couldn’t read.

“Why?” she asked.

Good question. One I didn’t have a good answer to.

“I’m not sure,” I admitted.

She nodded, like that made sense to her.

Silence again. But this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was heavier. Thick with something unsaid.

Her fingers pressed into her notebook, holding it like someone might hold a wound closed.

“Rough night?” I asked quietly.

She didn’t look at me when she answered.

“I have those often.”

Not said for sympathy. Not said for conversation.

Just said.

Truth in its purest form.

I felt something tighten in my chest.

Not pity.

Recognition.

“I get it,” I said.

She looked at me then. Really looked.

Like she was trying to see if I meant it or if I was just pretending like everyone else.

“Do you?” she asked.

Most people would say yes automatically.

Most people would lie.

I didn’t.

“I don’t sleep much either,” I said.

Her eyes softened. Barely. But I saw it.

“What keeps you awake?” she asked.

More silence. My turn to hesitate.

People don’t usually get to ask me real questions. They get the surface version. The polished one. The version that doesn’t bleed.

But she asked like someone who already understood pain. Someone who wouldn’t use the answer against me.

“Memories,” I said finally.

And the word felt heavier out loud than it usually does inside my head.

She nodded slowly, like she didn’t need explanation.

“What about you?” I asked.

She didn’t look away this time.

“The past,” she answered.

Same thing.

Different wording.

Same kind of hurt.

We were quiet again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of things neither of us were ready to say. Full of scars that hadn’t healed right. Full of the kind of understanding you don’t find often.

“Do you ever feel like the world is moving without you?” she asked.

I turned toward her slightly.

“All the time.”

She let out a small breath—not quite a sigh, not quite relief. Something in-between.

For the first time since I sat down, she relaxed just a little. Her shoulders dropped. Her fingers unclenched. The air around her softened.

And I realized something.

She wasn’t just quiet.

She was lonely.

Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone.

The kind that comes from being surrounded by people who don’t see you.

I know that kind.

Too well.

“You’re easy to talk to,” she said suddenly.

It caught me off guard. People say that to me all the time, but it never means anything. It’s usually just flattery. A way to keep me close. A way to make me stay where they want me.

But when she said it, it felt different.

She wasn’t complimenting me.

She was confessing something.

“You’re easy to listen to,” I said back.

Her mouth tugged into the smallest smile. Not full. Not bright. Just a tiny curve that looked like it had been locked away for a long time.

And I felt something warm in my chest.

Not excitement.

Not infatuation.

Something deeper.

Something slow.

Something dangerous.

“Adrian!”

The world broke the moment.

I didn’t turn immediately. I knew the voice — loud, familiar, demanding attention. The kind of voice that fills a room because it’s afraid of silence.

I didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to stay here. In the quiet. With her.

So I didn’t move until she closed her notebook.

“You should go,” she said softly.

I didn’t like that.

“I’ll come back,” I said.

She looked at me like she wanted to believe that.