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Chapter Two: Lipstick and Lies
The next morning felt like fog.
Ava sat at the kitchen counter, chin resting in her palm, staring blankly at her cup of coffee. It had gone cold a while ago, but she hadn't moved. Her phone was facedown. She hadn't checked it since last night. Not that she expected Jordan to text her.
He wouldn't.
Not yet.
The door to her room creaked open. Sasha padded out in a baggy tee and slippers, her hair wrapped in a bonnet, brows already raised. "You didn't sleep."
Ava gave her a tired look. "I tried."
Sasha leaned against the counter. "Did he ever show?"
She shook her head.
Sasha exhaled sharply, then walked over and wrapped her arms around Ava. "You don't have to pretend with me. You're hurt. I see it."
Ava swallowed hard. "I just don't want to believe it."
Sasha nodded. "That's the thing about believing in someone who lies — it turns your heart against your own mind."
Ava felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them away. "I need answers. I need to know if I'm crazy or if..."
"You're not crazy, Ava."
"But what if I am? What if I'm overthinking?"
Sasha pulled back and gave her a steady look. "Then prove it. Find the truth. Call it out. Don't keep letting someone who treats you like a maybe convince you that you're overreacting."
---
Later that afternoon, Ava sat in her room, staring at the lipstick-stained shirt she had stuffed in the bottom drawer last week. It still smelled like his cologne — strong, intoxicating, and now… sickening.
It wasn't her lipstick. She didn't even own that shade of red. But instead of facing it, she had chosen denial. Again.
Her fingers hovered over her phone. Should she call him? Ask directly? Would he lie again?
Just then, a notification popped up.
@OfficialJordanWest tagged you in a post.
Her heart flipped.
She clicked it — and froze.
It was a studio shot of Jordan with his arm around a girl.
Long dark curls. Sculpted brows. Red lips.
Red lips.
The caption read:
"Appreciate the real ones who've been by your side through the grind. Big things coming."
Ava's lungs stopped working for a second.
The comments were full of fire emojis and "🔥 couple goals." Some even tagged her.
"Isn't this dude taken?"
"Where's Ava???"
"She better not see this."
She saw it.
She saw everything.
And suddenly, everything inside her went still.
---
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Instead, Ava stood up and grabbed her tote bag. She threw her sketchbook inside, along with her phone and keys. She needed space. Air. Somewhere far from the suffocating memory of his scent and that lipstick.
She headed toward the campus café — a quiet spot on the edge of the design building. It was nearly empty when she arrived, the buzz of espresso machines the only real sound.
She ordered a chai latte and sat in the corner booth, trying to breathe through the tightness in her chest.
That's when she saw him.
Caleb.
Alone. Headphones in. A coffee in hand. His laptop open as he worked on their garment patterns.
Ava hesitated, then walked over.
"Mind if I sit?"
He looked up, surprised but smiling softly. "Always."
She slid into the seat across from him. He noticed her red-rimmed eyes, the way her hand gripped the cup too tightly.
"What happened?" he asked gently.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him.
The post.
His expression hardened.
"He posted that?"
Ava nodded.
"I guess that's the truth, then," she whispered.
Caleb sat back, silent for a long moment. Then he said, "You deserve better than someone who uses you until the spotlight hits."
Ava clenched her jaw. "I feel stupid. Like I let this happen."
"You didn't let it happen," Caleb said firmly. "You just loved someone who didn't know what to do with something real."
That hit harder than she expected.
"I wanted to be enough for him."
"You were."
Her eyes lifted to his.
"You are."
The sincerity in his voice broke something in her — a dam she had been holding for weeks. The tears finally came, silent and slow, rolling down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away.
Caleb didn't speak. He didn't reach across the table or try to fix it. He just sat with her in it — in the quiet wreckage of what was left.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
---
That night, Ava opened a new page in her sketchbook.
This time, it wasn't a dress.
It was a single phrase, written in bold ink:
"What hurts you isn't love. It's the lie that pretends to be it."
She stared at the words for a long time.
Then, slowly, she began to draw again — not for him, not for school, not even for anyone else.
This time, she drew for herself.
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