Shared Secrets
There wasn’t much noise in Cole’s house tonight — it was as if even the walls had grown tired of being part of the chaos.
I was in the guest room, sitting on the floor with my sketchpad, doodling like I always did. A small electric fan whirred quietly beside me, and outside the window, the garden lights glowed faintly.
It was quiet. No footsteps, no laughter, no loud calls from Edward. Michelle wasn’t around either. God knows where she was this time — probably writing more lies in some group chat or posting passive-aggressive stories online.
I pulled my hoodie up and lay flat on the floor, trying to finish a drawing of an eye I hadn’t looked at in a while. I wasn’t even sure whose eye it was — a stranger’s, or maybe my own, tired one.
Then the door creaked open.
“Hey,” Cole said. Not loud. His voice sounded tired, but with a kind of calm.
“Knock knock,” he added, even though he was already halfway in, holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
“Can I come in?” he asked — but sat down like he wasn’t really waiting for an answer.
I looked up. Hoodie, shorts, messy hair, barefoot. I wasn’t sure if, like me, he couldn’t sleep, or if he just felt like bothering me tonight.
“Drink,” he said, handing me one of the mugs. “Not too hot. Just right.”
“Wow, offering me drinks now? There’s no poison in this, is there?” I joked as I took it.
He smiled. “If there is, it’s sweet poison. Slow-acting.”
He sat across from me on the carpet, keeping a comfortable distance — not cold, but not too close. For a while, we just sat there, both holding mugs, both silent. For once, there was no agenda. No Michelle. No pretending.
“You’re not asleep yet?” I finally asked.
“Didn’t plan on it. I like nighttime.”
“Same.”
Quiet again. But not awkward.
“Do you ever wonder,” he said, “how we ended up here?”
I looked at him. “You mean this whole scam of ours?”
He smirked. “Not just that. I mean… everything. One day, life’s normal, then suddenly it’s just plot twist after plot twist. Next thing you know — fake relationship, stolen kisses, scandalous families.”
“Sounds fun,” I said sarcastically.
“Oh, super fun,” he said, taking a sip. “Straight out of Netflix.”
I laughed a little. Because yeah, it kinda was.
Then the silence returned — until he broke it again.
“You know… my mom died when I was eleven.”
I turned to him. His tone was serious but not dramatic. No big lead-up. He just… said it. Because he wanted to.
“Cancer,” he added. “Three years of hospitals. Chemos. Hospice. Then one day she just… slept. And didn’t wake up.”
I couldn’t say anything right away.
“I was too young to really process it,” he continued. “But the older I get, the more I feel the emptiness. Especially when I saw my dad destroy every decent memory we had left in that house.”
I gripped my mug tighter. “Cole…”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” He gave a small smile — but it had cracks in it.
“You’re not saying this just to get sympathy, are you?” I asked, half-joking.
“No. I’m saying it because… weirdly, you’re the only person I can talk to like this lately. No filter.”
I winced. “Wow. So even in a fake relationship, I’m your emotional sponge.”
“It’s a fair deal. You get free hot chocolate and all my childhood trauma.”
I laughed, even though it stung a little. Because I got it. That feeling of carrying something heavy inside, too raw to say aloud. But sometimes, even if the relationship is fake, the moments become real.
“Wanna know what I used to dream about?” I asked, raising my mug like a toast.
“What?”
“To be a painter. Like, a real one. With a studio. Exhibits. Paint-stained overalls. The whole thing.”
“Why didn’t you go for it?”
I looked at him. “Because excelling in academics is more realistic. Because it’s easier to prove you’re smart than to convince people you’re ‘artistic.’ And because… I didn’t have the time. Or the guts.”
I looked down for a second. I think it was the first time I ever said that out loud. And ironically, I said it to Cole.
“I want to see your work,” he said.
“You might get scared.”
“I don’t scare easily.”
“Really? Even when girls are literally scared of you sometimes?”
He smirked. “But not you.”
I nodded. “Not me.”
And just like that, it was quiet again.
But different this time.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
Like, just for a moment, there were no secret wars. No scripts.
Just two people. Drinking hot chocolate. Peeling off layers — not of clothes, but of stories.
Of truths.
We stayed like that for a while. We finished our drinks, but we hadn’t even scratched the surface of everything we carried.
Then I realized my sketchpad was still open. He saw it — the drawing of the eye. Unfinished, but raw. You could tell it wasn’t drawn just for the aesthetic. You could tell it came from something I was holding back.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the eye.
I sighed. “No one. Just… someone.”
“Really?” He tilted his head. “It looks like there’s a lot behind that gaze.”
“Maybe I’m just used to hiding things. Even my drawings have secrets now.”
He nodded. And waited. He didn’t push. He just stayed quiet long enough for me to feel like filling the silence.
So I spoke.
“My family’s not perfect,” I began slowly, trying to figure out which version of the truth I was ready to let out.
“I used to think we were okay. Just your typical family — a little yelling here and there, some drama, but still Sunday brunch at the mall.”
He listened. Didn’t interrupt. And that was enough for me to keep going.
“When I was a kid… I saw something. One night, I woke up, went downstairs for water. Then I saw him. My dad. He was… hurting her.”
I paused.
“He beat my mom, Cole. I saw it.”
I heard him suck in a breath, sharp and quiet. But he didn’t say anything.
“After that, I didn’t tell anyone. A week later, everything changed. Dad suddenly turned into Mr. Perfect — flowers, breakfast, recitals, the works.”
“You thought he changed?” he asked, gently.
“I did. And eventually, I started to forget what I saw. Or at least, I tried to. Because if he was being nice, maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe there was a reason.”
“You were trying to protect him,” he said. “And yourself.”
I nodded.
“And now,” I said, softer, “he’s gone. And I don’t know how to deal with the fact that even after all that… my mom moved on. And with him.”
I knew he heard the weight in the word him. But I didn’t say the name. I wasn’t ready.
“Do you still love your dad?” he asked, gently.
“I love the version he showed me. But I don’t know if that was real. Or if I was just part of his script. Because if he really loved us, why did he hurt her?”
He was quiet.
“And now,” I continued, “Mom acts like everything’s fine. Like this ‘Edward’ is her fresh start. But to me, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel fair. It’s too soon. Like… we just buried my dad yesterday, and now she’s holding someone else’s hand on the balcony.”
Cole exhaled. “I’m sorry, Faye.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
“But… that’s a lot.”
“I’m used to heavy,” I said. “It’s like painting. I keep layering all these colors until I can’t even tell what the original looked like.”
He leaned forward, gently touching my sketchpad.
“Draw it,” he said. “All of it. Even the stuff you can’t say out loud. Put it on the page.”
I didn’t answer right away. But something in me loosened. He didn’t ask if I wanted to cry. He didn’t rush me. He just said: draw it.
So I did.
I picked up a pencil. I didn’t know where to begin, but somehow, something eased. Not because everything was solved — but because someone sat beside my sadness. Quietly. No judgment. No “you should” or “that’s wrong.”
And in that moment, even if the world thought we were fake, one thing was real:
I wasn’t alone.
Cole stayed quiet. Staring straight ahead. And I just sat there too, still holding my now-cold mug of chocolate.
“You know…” I said softly, afraid that if I spoke too loud, the whole moment would shatter. “You’re weird.”
He looked at me. “Now what?”
“Just… earlier we were one second away from throwing phones at each other. Now you’re being all nice and gentle.”
“I’m just a ghost haunting your mood swings.”
I laughed — not loud. Just enough. It still hurt, but for some reason… I felt lighter. There was something about this night. About the quiet of this room. About how sincere his voice had been when he spoke about his mom.
It was the first time I saw this side of Cole.
No sarcasm. No competition. No mask. Just raw. Quiet. Nurturing. Comforting.
No pretense. No performance.
And for once… I didn’t feel like I had to fight him.
I looked at him. The lamppost outside cast just enough light across his face, and I could see his eyes — tired, but deep.
This was the version of Cole most people never saw.
And ironically, I was only starting to see it now, while we were pretending.
He wasn’t the campus heartthrob. He wasn’t the dean’s son. He wasn’t Michelle’s ex.
He was just Cole — a guy who lost his mom, got betrayed by two people he trusted, and still… showed up for me.
Even if it was fake. Even if it was scripted.
What he did tonight was real. And I couldn’t ignore that.
And maybe… the scariest part was realizing that the longer this went on, the less it felt like acting.
And maybe, the longer it goes on, I won’t just be watching his story.
I might be living in it.