The Comments Begged Me to Believe He Loved Me, His Actions Had Already Convinced Me Otherwise Chapter 02

The Comments Begged Me to Believe He Loved Me, His Actions Had Already Convinced Me Otherwise Chapter 02

Silas had never known how to say what he meant. According to the comments, that was the whole logic — his cruelty was just love dressed up as damage, and I was the only person who could save him.

Take the day we met. Art class. He leaned over, glanced at the clouds I’d painted, and scoffed. “That’s hideous. Looks like a squashed caterpillar.”

I opened my mouth to fire back — and the comments exploded across my vision.

[Lmaooo, the sharp tongue was there from DAY ONE. This boy was already a menace.]

[He’s all bark, no bite!! He totally fell for her at first sight, and now he’s dying to teach her how to draw. I KNOW what I saw.]

I hesitated. Turned my head. Caught Silas sneaking a glance at me — quick, careful, like he didn’t want to get caught.

I smiled. “I’d draw better if I had your supplies.”

His brow furrowed — all irritation, all performance — and he shoved the paint palette across the table. “Take all of it. You’ll still be terrible.”

That was Silas. Mean by reflex, generous in secret. It went on for years, and I endured it for just as long — until the night I walked home alone when I was sixteen.

A man lunged out of nowhere and clamped his hand over my mouth.

I fought. Kicked, thrashed, clawed — but my body was starting to go limp, and my clothes were being ripped open, and everything was dimming at the edges. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Silas, charging straight at him.

He stopped the attack. I was safe. But when I woke up, Silas was the one in the hospital bed next to mine — a stab wound in his side, two broken ribs wrapped in fresh bandages. And still, he was propped up, watching over me.

My throat tightened. He didn’t even blink.

“Don’t get emotional. I just happened to be in the area.”

“Maybe ask yourself why you were targeted in the first place. Parading around alone at night in that dress. Learned your lesson yet?”

The words landed like a slap. I went rigid. My eyes burned and I looked down at myself — at the floral dress my mom had bought me. It was my birthday. My teacher had let me skip the uniform, just this once.

Was that a crime? The comments broke in before I could spiral.

[He’d heard things were sketchy in the neighborhood lately, so he was secretly walking her home this whole time.]

[AND he saw the guys at school making a big deal about her dress today and went full jealous mode. That’s what this is. He’s not mad — he’s TERRITORIAL.]

[This man will bleed for her, but he won’t say “I care.” I’m on the FLOOR. Girl, just LOOK at him — it’s written all over him!]

I did.

His eyes darted away the second they met mine. And beneath the hospital gown, all I could see were wounds.

After that day, I stopped taking his barbs to heart. I started reading between the lines, searching the comments for proof of what they promised — that Silas loved me, in his own broken way. And sometimes, I found it. A flash of something soft behind the sharpness.

It made sense, then, that I fell for him. We gravitated together like it was inevitable.

But Silas was a genius — a once-in-a-generation painter — and geniuses crave equals. I wasn’t one.

The day he met Chloe, whatever balance we’d had split down the middle.

When inspiration struck, he stopped coming to me first. He went to her. When his episodes hit, he’d smash canvases and lock me out of the studio — but he let Chloe in. Let her sit with him. Let her talk him down.

When he won awards, he hugged her first. Then he’d toss the trophy into my arms like an afterthought.

Every time, it ate at me. But the comments talked me off the ledge: it’s just a creative bond. She’s his artistic soulmate. It’s not romantic.

Artistic soulmates. Sure. Like that made it hurt less.

A thousand times I wanted to scream in his face: What does she have that I don’t?

But that would’ve been pathetic. And pathetic was the one thing I refused to be. So I swallowed it — all of it. The distance. The episodes. The feeling of standing right next to someone and being completely invisible.

But this time, I was done.

The broken brush lay on the floor in two pieces — something that couldn’t be put back together. Just like us. I picked up my phone and started typing a breakup text.