🥀Max POV
The first thing Max noticed was her voice.
Not the words—
But the space between them.
She sounded fine.
Too fine.
And that meant something was wrong.
She hadn't said anything about the lemon cake.
She didn't scold him for missing dinner.
Didn't tease him like she always did.
Just that one sentence.
!"It's fine. You don't owe me anything."
He stared at his phone long after the call ended, her voice echoing through him like static.
That wasn't Lydia.
That was the version of her that came out when she was hurting and didn't want anyone to know.
And he knew her well enough to feel the sting of her silence.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
He was going to see her that night.
Hold her hand.
Look her in the eyes.
Tell her what he should have said years ago.
But he hadn't even made it to her door.
His parents had been waiting when he came home.
"You're not thinking clearly," his mother had said.
"She's your cousin," his father added, stern and cold. "This can't happen."
And just like that—
His world was snapped in half.
He fought.
God, he fought.
"It's not what you think. I love her-"
But his mother had only shaken her head.
"She's family, Max. You're confused. You always were too soft on her."
Like it was a weakness.
Like loving her was wrong.
He left the room, his chest burning and his hands clenched so tight they left marks in his palms.
But he didn't go to Lydia.
Because he was afraid she'd heard already.
And apparently, she had.
He lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him. Everything felt slow.
Numb.
He could still picture her kitchen.
The way she leaned over the counter when she was annoyed.
The way she smiled with her whole face.
How she used to eat the corners of the cake first, saving the softest part for last.
God, she was beautiful.
And she didn't even know it.
⚡️ Flashback
He'd loved her since they were kids.
Not the innocent kind. Not really.
He just didn't have a name for it back then.
But he remembered every phase of it.
He remembered when she was fourteen, lying in the grass with sun in her eyes, telling him she wanted to learn how to read poetry properly. Her voice soft, her hair tangled.
He'd watched her mouth move as she read a line out loud from a Rumi book.
And he thought: I could kiss her right now.
He didn't.
But the thought never left.
He remembered watching her hug someone once-just a friend-and jealousy clawed at his chest so fast, so sharp, it scared him.
He remembered the way she'd fall asleep in the car during long drives, her head leaning against the window. How badly he wanted her to lean it against his shoulder instead.
He remembered dreaming of her beside him in his bed-not for sex, but just to be there.
To hold her when he was tired.
To feel her fingers on his chest when the world got too loud.
She wasn't just someone he loved.
She was his peace.
His undoing.
His home.
But he'd never told her.
Not when she cried on his shoulder after her dog
died.
Not when she turned eighteen and looked at him with that quiet kind of grown-up pain in her eyes.
Not even when she hugged him goodbye before college and held on just a second longer than she should have.
He'd swallowed it all.
Every feeling.
Every want.
Every chance.
Until now.
And just when he finally decided to say it—
The world had stepped in.
✨Present
He called her again the next day.
She didn't answer.
So he sat in his car outside her building for thirty minutes, staring up at the light in her window, trying to figure out how to fix something that was breaking before he could even hold it.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the quiet:
"Please don't shut me out,Lydia.
Not when I've waited my whole life to love you out loud"💔