His Cruel Joke, My Broken Heart

I woke up to the hushed murmurs of my parents. Their faces were etched with worry, my mother clutching my hand, her eyes red-rimmed. I was in a hospital bed, the sterile smell burning my nostrils. "She's been so worried about you, sweetie," my mom whispered, stroking my hair.

Then I saw him. Damian. He was standing awkwardly by the door, a bouquet of lilies too bright for the room clutched in his hand. His usual effortless charm was replaced by a hesitant uncertainty. I immediately averted my gaze, staring fixedly at the ceiling. I couldn't bear to look at him.

"He was so worried," my dad added, his voice soft. "He even came to the house when you didn't answer his calls. Said he looked for you all night."

My stomach churned. Worried? Looking for me? It was a cruel irony.

"Elena," Damian said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Are you okay? I… I was really concerned."

I clamped my mouth shut, refusing to respond. My parents, misunderstanding my silence for weakness, nodded gratefully at him. "It's so kind of you to visit, Damian," my mom said.

My parents eventually left to speak with a nurse, leaving us alone. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept my gaze fixed elsewhere.

Then, I felt his weight on the edge of the bed. He sighed, a soft, weary sound, and then, slowly, wrapped an arm around me. It was a familiar embrace, one that used to bring me so much comfort. Now, it felt like a cage.

"Look, Elena," he began, his voice low. "About last night… I know what you heard. And I know it sounded bad." He paused, as if expecting me to protest, but I remained still. "Gigi… she just gets jealous sometimes. And things got out of hand. I never meant for you to hear any of it."

He tightened his arm around me. "You know I don't care about your weight, Elena. Never have. You're beautiful, no matter what."

I could feel a rare softness in his tone, a flicker of what I used to believe was genuine affection. His cheek rested against my hair, and for a split second, I almost believed him. His face, when I risked a glance, held an expression of genuine concern, a tenderness I hadn' t seen in a long time. Could he genuinely regret it? Could he feel bad?

My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall again. Not for him. Not anymore. I was so tired of trying to decipher him, of constantly searching for the 'good' Damian I thought I knew.

"I need to go home," I said, my voice hoarse, pulling away from his embrace. "I have important exams coming up."

His expression darkened. "Exams? You mean the Stanford early admission interview?"

I nodded, my heart sinking. Of course, he knew. Everyone in our small town knew about the prestigious scholarship.

"But… that's for Gigi too," he said, his brow furrowed. "It's a really competitive spot. Only one student from our school gets it."

My gaze sharpened. "Are you worried about Gigi, Damian?" I asked, a bitter taste in my mouth. "Worried that I might actually get it?"

He flinched. "No! Of course not. It's just… we always talked about going to Stanford together, remember? You, me, Gigi…"

He trailed off, but the implication was clear. You were supposed to be the backup. The smart friend who could tutor him, not the rival.

"So, you don't want me to succeed?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with a new, quiet fury. "Is that it? Our whole lives, we talked about going to college together, about making something of ourselves. Was that just another lie?"

He remained silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. "Look, Elena," he finally said, his voice strained. "Gigi… she really needs this. Her family is struggling right now. And you're so smart, you'll get into a great school no matter what. Maybe… maybe you could just… step aside on this one? Let her have it?"

My heart plummeted. My body went cold. He was asking me to give up my dream. For Gigi. Again. I pushed past him, scrambling off the bed. "I have to leave," I repeated, not looking back.

"Elena, wait!" he called, his voice urgent. "At least… wish me a happy birthday?"

I paused at the door, my hand on the cool metal. He stood there, handsome as a movie star, his golden hair falling perfectly across his forehead. But my eyes landed on his wrist. A new, expensive-looking watch gleamed there. It was the custom one Gigi had given him for his birthday, the one all the popular kids were talking about. My own gift, a handmade leather-bound journal I' d personalized with his favorite quotes, was still in my bag, crumpled and forgotten. I remembered how he always seemed to "misplace" my gifts, claiming they weren't his style. I used to think he was just careless. Now I knew. He was ashamed.

I turned back to him, forcing a brittle smile. "Happy birthday, Damian," I said, my voice flat. "I hope you get everything you wish for. And I mean that. Truly."

My words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. He didn' t seem to notice. He just smiled, a hollow, empty thing.