CHAPTER ONE: Broken Doesn't Mean Unlovable
The rain hadn't stopped all day.
It tapped against the windows like a gentle warning, a soft reminder of everything that lingered beneath the surface — memories, regrets, unspoken truths. It had been raining for hours, and yet, she hadn't moved from her spot on the couch. Wrapped in a faded gray hoodie and a pair of old socks with a hole in the toe, she stared out at the street, where people rushed by, umbrellas up, heads down.
She sipped the tea that had gone cold over an hour ago. Earl Grey. She didn't even like it. She just liked the idea of it — something about the name felt poetic, like it belonged to someone who knew how to sit in silence without unraveling.
But she wasn't that kind of person. Not anymore.
Once, she had been soft. Open. The kind of woman who planned surprise picnics, wrote handwritten notes, and believed that love could heal anything. Now, she didn't believe in much of anything.
Her apartment felt like an extension of her grief — minimal, quiet, and carefully curated so no one would ask questions. Books stacked neatly on shelves, candles that hadn't been lit in weeks, photographs turned face down in drawers.
She had spent the last six months perfecting the art of isolation. She told herself it was freedom. Peace. That she was better off this way.
And yet… the ache lingered. Quiet, but ever-present. Like a dull ache in a place you can't reach.
She grabbed her phone off the coffee table — not to call anyone, just to see if anyone had called her.
Of course, they hadn't.
There were texts. Casual check-ins. Work-related updates. One from a guy she had gone on two dates with but ghosted before it could become anything. Another from her cousin, reminding her about some family thing she had no intention of attending. And then, one from Nova.
Nova:Hope the rain's keeping you company today. Thinking of you.
She read it twice. Once with suspicion. Once with longing.
Nova was new. Kind. Too kind, maybe. The type of woman who said what she meant and didn't flinch when others didn't say it back. They'd met by accident — or fate, depending on how sentimental you were — at a bookstore on Charles Street. Both reaching for the same dog-eared copy of The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde.
She hadn't meant to talk. But Nova had a way of pulling conversation out of silence like magic.
They'd talked for an hour. She smiled. She even laughed. Then Nova asked for her number, and she gave it.
Then she panicked.
For two weeks, she responded with delays and deflections. Short answers. Safe topics. She had built walls so high she couldn't see the sky anymore, and Nova was standing at the edge of them, asking to be let in.
But she couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because Nova hadn't seen her angry. She hadn't seen the mess. The spiral. The way she fell apart for no reason and blamed people for not catching her, even when she never said she needed them to.
Nova didn't know that version. And it didn't seem fair to let her meet her now.
She put the phone down again.
The room was too quiet. She turned on the speaker and let Etta James fill the space. Something slow, something aching. Something that sounded like her soul on a Sunday afternoon.
Then she walked to the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Across the street, a couple walked under one umbrella. They were laughing. Close. The kind of closeness that once would have made her smile. Now, it made her uneasy.
Not because she didn't want it. But because she did. And wanting meant risking. Risking meant opening. And opening? Opening meant bleeding.
She didn't want to bleed for anyone again.
Still, she watched them walk past. The man brushed a strand of hair from the woman's face. The woman kissed his knuckles.
She looked away.
---
She turned from the window and walked back toward the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines like they were old friends. There was comfort in the presence of books — they didn't ask questions, didn't expect her to be anything other than what she was. Just a reader. A woman hiding between pages.
Her fingers paused at a slim, black volume.
She pulled it free and opened to a page at random.
She closed the book slowly.
Once upon a time, she would have read that and believed it. Believed that someone would expand for her, open their arms wide and say, "I see you — all of you — and I'm not afraid."
But belief like that had a shelf life.
She sat back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. The cracks there had started to spread — hairline fractures that reminded her of her own. Small at first. Harmless. But given time, they grew.
She was afraid of that.
Of time. Of growing cracks. Of being loved just enough to hope again, only to find herself holding the shattered pieces when the love faded.
The doorbell rang.
She froze.
No one visited. Not without texting first. And she hadn't ordered anything.
She moved quietly, peeking through the peephole. And there she was — Nova.
Drenched from the rain, holding a paper bag and an apologetic smile. A beanie pulled low over her ears. No umbrella.
She didn't want to answer. But something inside her — some old muscle of kindness that hadn't completely withered — turned the handle anyway.
She opened the door just enough to let her face be seen, but not her fear.
"Nova," she said, voice low, unreadable.
"Hey," Nova said, smiling like the rain didn't matter. "I brought food. Thai. You mentioned once you liked basil chicken."
She blinked. Had she? She couldn't remember saying that. It must've been in passing.
"You came all the way here… in the rain?"
Nova shrugged. "You didn't reply. So I figured I'd bring something that might make you forgive me for showing up uninvited."
She didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to be angry. To tell Nova she should have asked first. That she couldn't just show up like this, all warm and hopeful and *nice*. It was dangerous — this kind of kindness. It melted things.
But she stepped aside anyway.
Nova entered slowly, taking in the space but not commenting on the mess — the books, the blanket on the floor, the dishes in the sink. She just set the bag on the coffee table and peeled off her beanie, shaking out damp curls.
"You're quiet today," she said gently.
"I'm always quiet."
Nova smiled at that, not unkindly. "True. But today it feels different. Heavy."
She sat down on the couch like she'd done it a dozen times before. Like they were already something. Already comfortable.
That made her uncomfortable.
She stayed standing, arms crossed.
"I didn't ask you to come," she said finally.
Nova nodded. "I know."
"And you're not… like, assuming things will happen between us?"
Nova looked up at her then. Calm. Honest.
"No," she said. "I'm not here to fix you. Or save you. I just… like talking to you. And I thought maybe you wouldn't mind some food and company."
She studied her face. No signs of pressure. No agenda.
That scared her more.
Because people always had agendas. Kindness had strings. Smiles were weapons. Love was a loaded gun.
"I'm not someone you should get attached to," she said bluntly.
Nova leaned back, rested an arm over the back of the couch.
"Maybe I won't," she said. "But I'll decide that for myself."
And just like that, she laughed.
Just a breath — surprised, dry — but it was real. She hadn't expected it. It escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Nova grinned.
"See? Told you you were funny," she said.
"I didn't mean to laugh."
"I'll take it anyway."
They ate in silence for a while. Basil chicken, white rice, spring rolls. Nova didn't press. Didn't ask about the silence, or the hoodie, or the shadows under her eyes.
It was the first time in a long time she'd eaten without feeling like she was performing.
And somehow, that made it harder.
She didn't know what Nova wanted. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe just a seat on the couch and the warmth of food and someone to share it with.
She didn't trust that.
Not yet.
But she didn't tell her to leave either.
And that, she realized, was something.
---
Later, after the food was packed away and the rain had eased into a drizzle, Nova leaned back on the couch and looked at her with eyes that weren't trying to dissect or fix — just see.
"You ever think," Nova said softly, "that maybe… people aren't as scary as your past made them out to be?"
She didn't answer. Not immediately.
Because yes. She had thought about it. And still, the fear persisted.
"People leave," she said instead. "Even the ones who swear they won't."
Nova nodded. "True."
"People lie."
"Also true."
"They say they love you, but what they really mean is they love what you give them. The part of you that's easy."
Nova didn't flinch. She looked down at her fingers, then back up again.
"And if someone loves the part that's not easy?"
She didn't mean to say it. But it came out anyway.
"No one ever has."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was honest. The kind of silence that lets you breathe for the first time in days.
Nova leaned forward, her voice low and steady.
"Then maybe it's time someone did."
Those words felt like a match lit in a dark room. Not blinding — but enough to show what had been hiding in the shadows.
She stood abruptly, needing space. Needing air.
"I'm not ready," she said.
"I didn't ask you to be."
"I'm serious, Nova. I'm not… I don't do this. Relationships. Whatever this is."
Nova stood too, slowly, like she didn't want to startle her.
"Okay," she said gently. "Then let's not call it anything. Let's just exist. You and me. Right now. No pressure. No promises."
That felt even more dangerous.
Because it was safe. And she didn't know how to exist in safety.
"I should ask you to leave," she whispered.
"But you haven't."
And there it was again — that smile. Soft. Certain. Like it knew her even when she was trying so hard to stay hidden.
She turned away, walked to the window again. The rain had stopped, but everything outside was soaked in that post-storm quiet — like the city was holding its breath.
Behind her, she heard Nova move. Then the quiet rustle of her beanie being pulled on again.
"I'll go," Nova said, near the door now. "But just so you know… you're not as alone as you think."
The door opened. Then paused.
"I'll check on you tomorrow," she added. "Unless you tell me not to."
The door closed softly behind her.
And the apartment felt bigger. Emptier. Not because she was gone, but because she had been there.
She stood frozen for a long time.
Then she walked over to where Nova had been sitting and sank into the same spot. It was still warm. Her scent — something soft and earthy — lingered in the air.
She buried her face in her hands.
Not because she was falling for Nova.
But because she could feel the walls cracking.
And she didn't know how to stop it.
---
The quiet didn't last.
Silence, in her world, was rarely peaceful. It was a carrier of ghosts. The kind that didn't knock — the kind that walked right in and made themselves at home.
She curled into the couch, knees tucked under her hoodie, and let her mind go where it usually tried not to.
Back to him.
To the last man who said he loved her.
It started the way most things do — with charm. With late-night conversations and flowers delivered just because. With promises laced in soft words and kisses she once thought were honest.
She had let herself hope.
And then came the subtle things.
The way he grew quiet when she spoke too much. The way he laughed at her dreams. The way he started checking her phone — "just to be sure."
She remembered the first time he raised his voice. The first slammed door. The first time his apology sounded more like an ultimatum than regret.
"I just need you to be better," he'd said.
And she had tried. God, how she'd tried.
Tried to make herself smaller. Softer. Easier to love.
Until one day, she caught herself apologizing for crying after he didn't come home.
That was when she left.
But the bruises — the ones you couldn't see — those never left her.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself now, blinking against the sting behind her eyes.
Nova wasn't like him.
That was the problem.
Because good people were harder to trust than the broken ones. At least with broken people, she knew what to expect.
She reached for her phone. Her thumb hovered over Nova's name. She didn't know why. She wasn't going to text her.
Still, her finger tapped the thread. She scrolled back through their last few messages. Simple things. Playful things.
Nova: What's your comfort show?
Her: Anything with chaotic women and soft lighting.
Nova: So, every show on HBO?
Her: Basically.
She smiled without meaning to. Then locked the phone and dropped it facedown beside her.
This was dangerous.
This was how it always began — with warmth. With someone who listened. With someone who made her feel seen.
She couldn't afford to fall again. Not even a little.
But Nova wasn't asking her to fall.
Nova had said: "Let's just exist."
And wasn't that what she'd been doing all along?
Existing?
Maybe this time, the difference was… someone wanted to exist with her.
She stared at the ceiling. At the cracks.
And for the first time, they didn't seem quite so wide.
---
Morning came slowly.
Gray light pushed through the curtains, hesitant, like it wasn't sure if it was welcome. She lay in bed longer than usual, eyes open, staring at the water stains on the ceiling like they held the answers to questions she hadn't dared to ask.
There was no text from Nova.
And somehow, that stung more than if there had been.
She tossed the sheets off, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and poured coffee with hands that still felt unsure of the day. There was a part of her — quiet but stubborn — that expected Nova to pop back in. Maybe with croissants and that same open expression that said I'm not here to fix you, just to stay awhile.
But Nova didn't come.
Instead, it was just her. And the coffee. And the ache in her chest that felt like… disappointment?
She wasn't sure. She didn't want to name it.
The clock ticked. The city outside stretched and yawned its way into another rainy weekday. She picked at toast she didn't want, then finally grabbed her phone and checked it again.
Nothing.
She tried to shake it off. After all, wasn't this what she wanted? Distance. Space. No complications. No feelings she'd have to excavate and understand. No growing attachment that would only get torn away later.
Still — she thought Nova would text.
She hated that she thought it.
To distract herself, she turned on music. Something moody and atmospheric. The kind of music that filled the room without demanding too much. She let herself move through the motions — dishes, emails, bills — until the sound of a knock at the door stilled her mid-step.
Three soft taps.
Her heart didn't just jump — it somersaulted.
She moved slowly, eyes narrowing. It couldn't be—
But when she opened the door, it wasn't Nova.
It was a stranger.
A woman, same build, same soft curls — but her energy was different. Sharper. More impatient. Like a matchstick about to burn out.
"Hey," the woman said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "You must be…?"
She blinked, confused. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
The woman tilted her head, clearly amused. "Guess not. I'm Lex. Nova's twin."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Twin.
Lex.
Her brain scrambled for footing, and suddenly, flashes came — the moment weeks ago when she thought she saw Nova in a car with someone else. The lingering suspicion. The way she'd almost ended it before it even began. The cheating she never asked Nova about.
Because she didn't want the truth.
She wanted an excuse.
Lex looked her over, then said, "Yeah… she said you might freak a little."
She couldn't respond. Her thoughts were too loud.
Lex shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. "I'm not here to stir drama. Nova just asked me to check if you were okay. She figured you wouldn't pick up."
And suddenly, the weight of it all hit her at once.
The assumptions. The cold withdrawal. The fear that made her sabotage something before it could become real.
Nova hadn't cheated.
Nova had a twin.
And she never once gave her a chance to explain.
---
She didn't say anything.
Lex stood there, watching her unravel, arms folded like she'd seen this kind of collapse before. And maybe she had. Maybe Nova had told her everything — or maybe she didn't have to.
People like her always carried a certain look when they were folding in on themselves. It wasn't loud. It wasn't theatrical.
It was quiet. Sharp. Private.
Like bleeding from the inside out.
Lex sighed. "You okay?"
She hated that question.
She nodded, even though it was a lie. "Yeah… I just—"
She didn't finish. Because what could she say? Sorry, I thought your sister was cheating on me so I emotionally ghosted her because that's what I do when someone gets too close?
Lex raised a brow, half-smiling. "Nova told me not to judge you. Said you were dealing with your own stuff."
"She shouldn't have said anything," she mumbled.
"Relax," Lex replied, more gently than expected. "She didn't say much. Just that you're the kind of person who runs before the fall."
That made her flinch.
Because it was true. Too true.
She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warm air.
Lex took the hint, nodding once. "Look. You don't owe anyone anything. But Nova… she cares. More than she probably should. Just—think about that."
With that, she turned and walked away, boots splashing in a shallow puddle that still lingered from last night's rain.
She closed the door.
Locked it.
And sank to the floor.
I did it again, she thought. I ruined something that hadn't even started. Something that might've been good.
The tears came then — not the kind that begged for attention, but the silent ones that slipped down your cheeks when the shame hit a little too hard.
Nova had been patient. Kind. Consistent. And she repaid her with silence, distance, and mistrust — all based on a shadow. A half-glance. A fear she never gave voice to.
She had wanted Nova to fail her.
Because failure meant safety. It meant no risk. It meant she could go back to being alone and call it survival.
She stood up, pacing now.
Should she text?
Should she call?
Would it even matter?
She thought of Nova's smile. The calm in her voice. The way she said "Let's just exist." And she realized something awful: Nova had asked for almost nothing. And still, she couldn't give it.
She walked to her notebook and opened to the last page.
"I don't know how to let anyone in anymore. And the worst part? I don't even know if I want to."
She scribbled underneath it, for the first time not thinking, not editing.
I did want to. I just didn't know how.
Her chest ached.
She picked up her phone. Scrolled to Nova's name. Typed.
Then deleted it.
Then typed again.
"Hey. I owe you an explanation. I wasn't fair to you. I made assumptions. I disappeared. That wasn't about you — it was me, trying to outrun my own fear. I'm sorry."
She hovered over send.
Then she did something she hadn't done in months.
She cried — openly, freely, without guilt.
And then she hit send.
Not knowing if Nova would reply.
Not knowing if she deserved her to.
But for once, she wasn't running.
And maybe, just maybe, that was a beginning.