Keith is a chain hotel owner. Keith never liked you. Yet, he married you, he never joined you in bed and he had quiet dinners with you in silence. He was cold, rude, and emotionless. A year after his marriage to you his rival business people kidnapped you in order to get even with him because he was always winning the awards and the fame. They chained you up and beat you until you were unconscious. Then they kept you in an underground place outside the city where they mercilessly beat you every day and tortured you. Keith's men tried to find you everywhere. Even the police were involved without any success as there was no trace of you left and no leads. Two years pass and Keith gets married to Amelia. His family man image is good for the hotel business. But a year after his second marriage you return back. You were released by your kidnappers.

The ballroom shimmered with crystal lights, laughter, and fake smiles. Your parents glowed with pride, parading their wealth like a crown jewel. Prestige was everything to them. You stood in the center, suffocating under the weight of murmurs and music, clutching your phone like a lifeline. Ashton hadn’t texted. You remembered the argument that morning, your trembling voice saying, “I’m pregnant,” and his sharp reply cutting through you like glass. He wanted it gone. You refused. You loved him... flawed, untamed, never the settling kind but still yours. By 9:00 pm, you caved and called him. A woman answered. Laughter in the background; soft, intimate. Lila. Your lungs collapsed in silence as you hung up. Tears blurred the chandeliers. You turned to leave, but your father’s hand locked on your arm. His voice thundered, proud and final: “My daughter is engaged to Trevor McAllis!” Applause erupted. You stared at a stranger who smiled at you like hope itself. Inside, bricks fell, crushing you. A week later, you wore white. Trevor was gentle, quiet, everything Ashton wasn’t. He believed the child was his, and his pride softened his gaze. You let him believe. You feared the truth like fire. Then Ashton returned.. not for love, but money. "One million or I tell him." You refused. And he did. Trevor’s face that day… shattering glass, storming skies. He walked away, heart in ruins, leaving you in a silence louder than any applause. And as you reached for him too late, you finally knew: the man you never loved was the only one who truly did.

To love for the sake of being loved is humane. But to love for the sake of loving… that is angelic. That was you. And Ezan, your forever love, was the reason you breathed, even when he didn’t return the feeling. When he married you, it was duty, a checkbox for his parents, not passion. You sensed it, but love doesn’t measure itself by return. His life was sky-bound, international flights pulling him further from your arms. You never clung, never begged because he didn't want you to. One message a day was your ritual: "I love you, take care of yourself". Or, "Stay warm, don’t skip meals". He never replied. But he read them. That was enough for you. In Paris he met Marie, a dancer of light and shadows. Their meetings began with casual laughter, but laughter spilled into stolen glances, into nights that whispered of everything forbidden though they hadn’t yet crossed that last line. He chose France for every flight now. Chose her. Chose the life you didn’t know existed. Until silence. A week of it. Your phone dead, your routine broken. He noticed. For the first time, he noticed. Questions gnawed: "Was she tired of me? Is she safe? Did someone else take my place?" When your new phone lit up, a single message waited: "Why did you stop texting me? I’m coming home. I’m sorry." The next morning, he stood in your doorway, head lowered, heart split. Should he confess Marie… and her unborn child? Or swallow the truth and fight for the love he’d only now begun to fear losing?

The forest burned like a living beast, flames devouring ancient pines in a frenzy of orange and crimson. Smoke clawed at the sky, choking out the sun, while the screams of dying trees cracked like bones in the inferno. You tightened your helmet strap, the heat blistering through your suit. Dad wanted this life for you. A firefighter like him. Brave. Fearless. But standing here, watching rabbits flee with fur singed and birds falling in spirals of ash, you realized you were terrified. “Move in!” the chief yelled, but the fire roared louder, an unholy wind pushing it toward them. Your boots sank into charred earth as you spotted a fox, its russet fur ablaze, whimpering near a fallen log. Your heart leaked and you couldn’t leave it. You lunged, arms outstretched, when the fire surged, curling into a wall around you. Heat clawed your lungs. This is it. A blur. Strong arms. A voice like gravel and thunder: “Hold on.” He tore through the inferno with you in his grasp, flames bending away as if afraid of him. You crashed into a clearing, the remnants of what once was a village, smoldering cabins, claw marks etched into stone. And then you saw him. Really saw him. Ears, fur-tipped and twitching. Eyes, golden as molten amber. Levian. Not a man. A wolf… and yet more. Around him, others emerged, silhouettes in smoke; an ancient pack, hidden for centuries. Your pulse throbbed like war drums. You wanted him; fiercely, recklessly. But then you saw her: the omega by his side, unmarked yet his. Lona his mate. His loyalty was carved in steel. And you? Just a trembling girl in borrowed courage. Still… you stayed. Because hope, like fire, doesn’t die easily.

Juneau had always been your dream since high school, since the rodeos and Friday night lights. Composed, distant, working that spread of his like a man born from the dirt itself. Folks said his ranch was the best in Texas. His ma, Martha, gave him a French name ‘cause she loved Paris, strange thing for a woman who never left Apple Springs. Martha was full of secrets, the kind that stayed locked tighter than the cellar in July heat. You came back fresh from college, working your daddy’s farm supply store, when Martha strolled in wearing her Sunday pearls. She looked you over the way women look at thoroughbreds. On your break, she said it plain: Marry my boy. You laughed her off ‘til you saw Juneau at the saloon, dancing with Emilia. God, Emilia, the thorn in your side since grade school. That rivalry burned hotter than whiskey. And you weren’t about to let her win. Next day, you told Martha yes. Juneau? He near split a gut laughing. Mule-headed, deep drawl dripping with stubborn pride. But when Emilia heard, war drums sounded. Arguments on Main Street, spats in the saloon; Juneau caught in the middle, cussing like a ranch hand at branding time. Then came the wedding. Chaos, fists, lace tearing, Emilia screaming bloody murder at the altar while the preacher turned ghost-white. Juneau muttered every curse he knew. That night, he left you in the bedroom and vanished. Martha knew why. The first shift would happen under a full Texas moon. From man to monster. You didn’t know. Neither did he. But Martha did. And she wasn’t done scheming yet.

The war stole everything. Five years ago, Agustus left for the front, leaving you and your son behind. A bomb took your boy, leaving you hollow, clutching silence where laughter once lived. Grief became your language until the war ended. Now, you stand at the station, pressed between wives and children, hope trembling in your veins. Your heart beats like a drum as the train roars into view, its wheels screaming against the rails. Steam spills across the platform like ghosts. Men pour out... faces weathered, uniforms stained... searching, calling names that sound like prayers. And then, you see him. Or someone who wears his face. He scans the crowd, a letter clenched in his fist, eyes darting until they lock on yours. “Augy!” The name breaks from your throat, raw with relief. He drops the letter, strides toward you, and his arms crush you to his chest. For one breath, the world is whole. But the letter held the truth: Agustus is dead, killed spying behind enemy lines. The man holding you is a duplicate; a soldier reshaped to wear your husband’s face, to deceive the enemy in a war that needed two of him. And now, you. Months crawl by. You notice differences. His sharp tongue, the hardness in his eyes, but blame the war. He watches your pain, your clinging hope, and every time the truth burns his lips, he swallows it. Because for the first time in his life, someone loves him, not for who he is, but for who he pretends to be.

The club pulsed with dim neon light, the air heavy with sweat and stale liquor. Only a handful of people lingered, laughing too loudly, moving in a drunken sway. It was past three when you spotted her. Eda. In the corner, her lips locked to some stranger’s. Your chest burned, a molten ache clawing its way up. This time felt worse. You knew she was done with Yohan, but this? This was betrayal laid bare. Yohan. Blind, devoted, fragile in ways he’d never admit. He thought Eda adored him. He never knew her marriage was charity disguised as love. He wore his pride like armor, unaware she shattered vows behind his back. You loved him... God, how you loved him... for his sharp tongue, for the warmth he hid so carefully. At 4:00 a.m., you walked into their home. Yohan sat waiting, worry carved into his face. When you told him about Eda, about your heart, his fury was ice and fire. “Leave,” he snapped. And you did. A year later, his world needed light again. A donor. A chance to see. You gave him that chance secretly, silently, losing an eye so he could reclaim one. When he found out, gratitude wasn’t his gift. Harsh words, cold walls. But then he saw Eda for what she was; a liar, a thief of vows. She didn’t know he could see. Now the pieces spin: a broken marriage, tangled lies, love twisted between hope and obsession. And you? You’d never stop loving Yohan.

The cabin door slammed behind you as you stumbled barefoot into the night, only a thin nightgown clinging to your skin. Julio lay sprawled on the floor inside, his voice still echoing in your head. Your husband. Your poison. You had fled at last. A month earlier, the accident had taken your memory, and with it, your bearings. But Julio had only sharpened the edges of your confusion into terror. The town's laundromat offered sanctuary; brief, illicit. You slipped into a stranger’s jacket, stole a handful of bills from a man hypnotized by his glowing phone, and vanished onto the next bus. Camprodon. A place of stone alleys and river hymns, where rain fell in sheets, soaking your trembling body until you no longer knew where your skin ended and the storm began. He found you there. Neil, white shirt pressed to his frame, red umbrella gleaming like a shield. He bent time with a glance, commanded the storm’s tempo. The rain smelled of pine and wet stone, the monastery bells drifting like ghosts through the mist. He approached, wordless, the silence between showers wrapping around you like a secret. You fell into his eyes, storm-colored, magnetic. With him, memory could stay buried. But Neil turned from you, choosing truth over desire. He sent you back, back to Julio’s cage. Yet when the storm curved time, Neil glimpsed the past: you in Catalonia, Julio’s cruelty etched into you like scars. And for the first time, Neil’s power trembled.

Luan Nuada woke beneath the sprawling oak, dawn light fractured through its leaves. His muscles ached from the night’s transformation, his first in Aviemore, where he had come as a quiet stranger, hired as the new professor at the University of the Highlands. But time betrayed him. The lecture hour had passed, and instinct drove him forward. Without thinking, without shifting, he tore through the forest to the city in his wolf form, paws drumming the damp earth, breath rising like smoke in the cold air. He burst into the classroom, a massive wolf framed against fluorescent light. The students shrank into a corner, their whispers strangled into silence. Then the wolf spoke in the deep, steady cadence of their professor. “Open your notes. Administration is nothing without order.” Terror, disbelief. You arrived late, fumbling with your books, only to freeze at the sight: a wolf at the lectern, commanding the room. The voice was unmistakable. You screamed. The sound shattered Luan’s focus. Horror struck him; he had never shifted back. With one violent motion he fled, claws scraping tile, body vanishing into the gray mist beyond the university walls. You chased him on your bike, heart in your throat, until by the river you glimpsed him... human again, dripping, breathless, broken. Days later, courage led you to confront him. You told him what you saw. His eyes dimmed; his voice cracked. He quit. No explanation, no goodbye. He vanished into the highlands. And you searched, haunted. Every trail, every howl in the night became a possibility, every flicker of fur in the trees a promise that Luan Nuada was not lost forever.

The first time you saw Ronan, you knew. Not with the dizzy flutters of a crush, but with that bone deep certainty that this man older, weathered, carrying shadows, was the one your heart had already chosen. There was something in the way he stood, quiet but unshakable, the calm authority in his voice, the strength in his eyes that made the world lean toward him. You knew about the wreckage of his past. His wife, Elina, had left after losing their child, and grief clung to him like a second skin. Still, he turned up at her gallery show, supporting her even as separation stretched like glass between them. That was where you worked. That was where you watched him day after day, month after month until your heart stitched him into its every corner. You approached him, more times than you could count, whispering confessions you thought might change him. He refused you every time. Too young, he said. He still loved her, he said. Each word cracked you open, but still you returned, because love makes fools of us all. You memorized him, his rare smile, the way he leaned against the window when tired, the gentleman’s ritual of walking you to the door even after rejection. You knew he’d never say yes. Yet you tried one last time. And his voice, once steady, broke sharp: “For the last damn time, it’s a no. Now get out. You’re childish. Spoiled. Selfish. I don’t care what you feel.” The words landed like glass shattering. And all you could do was bleed quietly in the silence he left behind.

You found Xavier pacing the narrow living room of your brother’s cottage, his silhouette restless against the frost-cloaked windows. A year had passed since your brutal parting, a year since you’d flung cruel words at his Spanish accent as if love could be shamed into silence. You had carried your pride like armor, and he had worn the wound in silence. At gatherings since, he treated you like smoke... there, then gone. Women gathered to him like moths, dazzled by the flicker of his dark eyes, while you faded to the edges, unseen. And now fate had twisted the knife. Out of all your friends, only you and he had reached the cottage before the storm closed the road. Two days locked inside, tempers clashing, voices rising, your bitterness against his scorn. It was war disguised as conversation. Then Lydia arrived, hair shining like flame, gaze burning for him and everyone knew it. Xavier played his role with careless cruelty, leaning into her laughter, his bad-boy smile cutting deeper than any insult. You felt the sickness coil in your stomach, not because he toyed with her, but because you remembered when it had been you. In the hush between Lydia’s laughter and his smirk, you saw him; the man you had broken, the one who had once laid his heart in your palms. And for the first time, you realized the depth of your sin: you had shamed not his accent, but his soul.

Growing up blind was both curse and blessing. Darkness shielded you from cruelties others carried on their faces, but it also kept the world half-formed, existing only when your hands reached out to touch it. At sixteen, when your parents cast you aside, you learned that sound and texture were the only truths left to you. It was then you met him, Caom. He never let you touch his hair, though his voice, his face and his presence were carved deep into your memory. He became your compass, teaching you how to walk with confidence, how to live as though sight didn’t matter. At night he would vanish, promising only that he had obligations elsewhere. You never asked, never guessed he belonged to a pack. Years blurred until your twenty-third birthday, when Caom’s voice carried a new weight. He told you he had found work far away, that he would now visit only twice a week. You believed him, not knowing what he was or that he had chosen a mate, Liya. Your chest ached with the quiet longing you’d buried for years. And one night, grief pressed so heavy that you cried yourself to sleep. The morning broke differently. Your eyelids opened to light, to shapes, to the trembling miracle of sight. Slowly the world sharpened and you vowed to surprise Caom. Yet, when he returned, pulling back his hood, the surprise belonged to you. Wolf ears rose above his head. He was not the man you thought, but more feral, beautiful, impossibly real. You told him you could see. You told him you weren’t afraid. You confessed what had lived inside your heart for years. His answer cut like winter: refusal, over and over, because another already carried his bond. A truth you couldn’t bear, and wouldn’t accept.

His love had always overpowered everything; every flaw, every obstacle but that night, you chose Adam instead. Six months ago, a stranger in a club: charming, calm, effortless. Brian, the storm, stubborn, impossibly Irish was left behind. The pub’s chatter dulled when you smiled, announcing Adam. Three months later, you were his wife. Brian attended your wedding, silent, composed. Inside, he was fracturing. Seeing you radiant beside another man was a knife in his chest, yet he smiled for you, never for himself. After that he vanished. Only a single text: “Slán go fóill.” And that was the last of him. Adam’s love curdled into control, poison masked as devotion. Two years later, you fled. Parents opposed, voices heavy with judgment. Alone, you opened the memory box. A photo of you and Brian, grumpy, smirking, leaning on your shoulder. Another from that fateful pub night. His face wasn’t sad; it was empty. A void that clawed at your chest. Weeks of searching, rumors about payphones' calls, whispers in the city. One day at a pub called "Secret Leprechaun" while you were sitting lost in thoughts you heard a familiar voice. His voice; deep, unmistakably Brian's, cut through the noise. You ran, arms open. But a woman stopped you: Ema, his fiancée. And with a teasing grin, he said, “Heileo, a strainséir!” Time froze. Breath caught. Heart shattered. And suddenly, the storm was real again.

Renard once felt like the center of your world, your steady hand in the storms. You remembered the birth of your son, the hospital lights, his fingers interlaced with yours as he promised "This is all I’ll ever want." Money was scarce, but love was plenty. While you juggled late shifts, he stayed home. He’d call you unstoppable. Tell you that soon he would get a job. When he decided to return to college, you didn’t blink. You worked extra hours, skipped small comforts, poured your savings into his tuition. The job opportunity was across the country. He begged you to follow. To uproot, to abandon everything. You said you would follow after he would have settled, trusting that love could weather distance. You were wrong. The calls thinned, then stopped. Papers arrived, cold and final. He took custody of your son. Soon the boy echoed his father’s dismissive tone, called your life small. He never knew the cost of your devotion. Renard remarried. Elena was now his forever. A daughter followed. Years later, a knock at your door; your son, teenager now. "Dad’s too busy for me now", he cried. Slowly, painfully, you told him you’d never stopped loving him. He stayed. Months laters Renard called. He was sobbing. Elena had took their daughter and left him. She emptied the banks accounts and left him with debt. He asked you in his sobs for a hug. You stood still. The question wasn't if you would go give him that hug. It was whether you’d ever again hand him the chance to break you.

. The bell above your café-bookstore door chimed, and he stepped in; his face shadowed, eyes heavy with unseen burdens. You didn’t know yet that he had just guided souls to their final destinations: a mother to the cold gates of Hades, her infant to the embrace of the Divine Light. Still, your smile met him like sunlight. He ordered a coffee and a book, "Birds Who Can’t Fly". When you placed them on his table and introduced yourself, his name came like a secret he barely allowed to escape. He was distant, his answers clipped, wrapped in shadows. Atherion Veyr. <NPC> Months passed before you saw him again. This time, Atherion didn’t even open his book. Gathering every trembling ounce of courage, you sat across from him. Your fingers brushed his, your cheeks burning as you confessed what had bloomed in your chest. He smiled faintly but rejected you, warning he was no man for any girl. Still, you pursued him. Once, you crossed the street to the restaurant where he dined, teasing that you cooked better. Gradually, he let small pieces of himself slip through. One evening, you kissed him. Darkness surged around you, then blinding warmth; an instant of both death and heaven. Shaken, he told you his truth: he was a boatman of souls. To love him meant boarding his vessel forever. His words shattered you, but you clung to one truth. He could steer countless souls to eternity, yet you would not let him sail away from yours.

The night demanded celebration after college graduation. Neon lights pulsed over the beach club, waves brushing the shore in gentle rhythm, music thumping through the sand like a heartbeat. One drink became many, laughter spilling into the salty breeze, voices mingling with sea and summer. That’s when you saw him: Cian Sullivan. A glance, a smile, and soon you were dancing, intoxicated not just by cocktails but by a magnetic pull that felt dangerous, irresistible, as if he existed somewhere between dream and peril. Morning came with a hangover and heartbreak. His number deactivated. No trace. Only a selfie and the echo of a stolen night. Desperate, you returned to the club. Shadows and whispers answered you: nobody knew him, nobody had seen him before. You sank onto the sand, staring at the restless sea, the waves murmuring secrets you couldn’t grasp. “Looking for someone?” an old man’s voice startled you. He peered at the photo, eyes widening. “The heartbreaker wolf,” he muttered, swearing he once saw Cian shift under a full moon. You laughed, disbelief bitter, until he pressed a map into your hand, the forest inked like a promise, daring you into the unknown. Weeks later, Olympic National Park stretched wild before you. Wolves emerged, circling, guiding. And then him. Cian. Not the neon-night charmer, but sharp-tongued, arrogant, fierce; a predator in every sense. The heartbreaker, the wolf, waiting just beyond the trees, eyes glinting with a secret you weren’t sure you were ready to uncover.

Sean Rodes had been in your class since freshman year, and from day one he’d made his disdain for you a public sport. No reason, no mercy, just that smirk and the sting of his words. Everyone knew he didn’t like you. Everyone also knew you’d never stoop to ask why. The annual college camping trip was supposed to be a reprieve. By the bonfire, shadows danced over laughing faces as Truth or Dare took over the night. Sean sat opposite you, firelight glinting in his eyes. “Truth or dare?” someone challenged him. “Truth,” he said, lazy and confident. “Why do you hate her so much?” The finger pointed at you felt like a blade. Sean didn’t flinch. “She’s annoying. Her face makes me want to puke.” His voice was flat, almost bored, yet every syllable struck. Teasing rose around him, jabs about how things might change. Your turn came. “Dare,” you said, jaw tight. “Kiss Sean.” The heat of the fire couldn’t touch the cold in your chest. You approached, leaned in, brushed your lips to his. His face twisted. He stood, gagged, and walked off to laughter that wasn’t yours. Later, under the hush of midnight, news spread. Sean’s been in an accident. At the hospital, his life dangled on a transplant list. You didn’t hesitate. You signed the papers. He never knew. And when he recovered, the mockery returned, sharper than ever. But you knew the truth he’d never be ready to face.

In 1885, you and Edmund, both heirs to noble names, were inseparable. Your families’ disapproval was fierce, but his love burned fiercer. Before you were torn apart, he pressed a silver locket into your hand, swearing it held your forever. Then your father exiled you to a distant land. Edmund searched villages, forests, foreign cities but never found you. In 2024, he walks again, though time has bent him. Now he is Ned, reckless, magnetic, draped in sarcasm and leather, breaking hearts as easily as speed limits. You, spending summer in your father’s café, flee after a bitter argument to your grandmother’s house. There, buried in an old box, you find the locket. Inside: your face in Victorian dress… and Edmund’s. Your grandmother tells you the tale; how the locket passed down through generations, carrying a story no one dared believe. You keep it close. Weeks later, back at college, you see him. The same eyes. The same mouth. The boy from the locket, the boy you wouldn't care to notice if not that locket. He’s surrounded by admirers, his arrogance a shield. You bide your time, then place the locket in his hand. And you tell him the story. He laughs, sharp and cruel, dismissing you like smoke. But you don’t let go. Because you know what he does not care to understand: love this old does not die. And destiny, relentless, patient, has already chosen its moment to strike.

The chapel was a dream, drenched in light and roses. Petals spilled over marble steps, their perfume wrapping around you as you glided down the aisle, the silk of your gown whispering with each step. Dan waited at the altar, his smile steady, the eyes of friends and family shining with approval. Then the doors burst open. Wind and shadow crashed into the holy air, followed by the snarl of beasts. Werewolves, five of them, poured inside. Screams shattered the stillness, pews scraped, bodies fled. At their center was her, Marna. Not wholly wolf, not wholly human, her fire-bright eyes locked on you, her tail lashing like a threat. She barked an order. Two males seized Dan. You screamed his name as they dragged him away, his face a mask of terror. Your bouquet fell, crushed beneath clawed paws. They vanished into the Black Forest, into Marna’s den. There, beneath the scent of damp earth, she marked him with her bite. The transformation ripped through him, bone twisting, flesh burning. He rose trembling, his mind split between man and wolf. He remembered you. But the wolf wouldn't accept you. Months later, you found him with a search team; a lone, rogue werewolf with eyes you once loved. But his words cut like blades, his mouth spilling curses, his gaze cold with rejection. The man you were about to get married was gone. The wolf had claimed him. He had escaped Marna's pack but he was lost in his new reality. The wolf was in control.

Living in Schiltach was a quiet ritual of stone and wood, a slow rhythm handed down like your father’s tools precise, dependable, unchanging. You were just an accountant clerk, a shadow beside the legacy of craftsmen in your bloodline. Nights were locked tight by midnight, doors bolted against the whispered terror that prowled the outskirts: werewolves. Tonight was different. A full moon hung heavy, swollen and wild; the biggest in decades. For the Moonshine Pack, it was a call to mate. Ernst, their Alpha, fearless, cold, and ruthless had never cared for partners. But now, burdened by his crown, he had no choice. Your family had gone for the weekend; you were alone, wrapped in the solitude of your ancestral home. You sealed every window, every door; everywhere except the dog door. Max, your loyal guardian, was away with your brother. The door, left unlocked, was a silent invitation. Ernst entered without hesitation, slipping through the small opening like a shadow. His wolf form trembled with hunger and rage. Then, with a snap and crack, fur melted into skin, claws into fingers. His eyes locked onto you... wild, dangerous, and impossible to resist. You screamed, but his hand silenced you... soft, commanding. “Shhhh... mate.” Dragged into the Black Forest’s dark heart, he marked you with the bite bond cold, irreversible. He doesn’t love you. He dominates with arrogance and sarcasm. And you? Bound forever, craving him in ways you don’t understand.

You’d always been “the quiet, nerdy girl.” The one tucked away in library corners, invisible to most. But behind the silence, your heart lived in chaos because you were hopelessly, secretly in love with your best friend, Logan Steffen. The campus bad boy. The one everyone wanted, yet no one could hold. You and Logan had history; years of banter, laughter, late night talks. To him, you were his safe place. To you, he was everything. Vassia, the college’s queen bee, all gloss and poison saw the closeness between you and Logan, and she hated it. One afternoon, you overheard her telling him you were in love with him. And he laughed. Not kindly. Not nervously. But with that cruel disbelief that burns itself into your bones. You stood hidden behind the campus oak, heart cracking in silence. You never told him. Instead, you wrote it in your diary; this time not your love, but how his laugh shattered you. Three years later, an accident you had, put that diary in Logan’s hands. By then, he was married to Vassia, trapped in a marriage of glitter and arguments. He read your words with tears, seeing you differently for the first time. Realizing too late. And you? You still smiled at him. Still spoke kindly. Because no matter what, you’d never let him see that you’d never stopped loving him.