Yet, with Orion, it felt different.
One evening, after a particularly heart-to-heart conversation, Orion sent her a message that made her heart skip a beat:
"Lyra, I think I love you."
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She had dreamed of hearing those words, had longed for someone to see her, to truly see her, beyond the smile. And now, Orion had said it. The walls around her heart began to crack, and a tear slipped down her cheek, though she quickly wiped it away.
But just as quickly as the moment arrived, a shadow fell over it.
Orion's messages became less frequent. The warmth that once radiated from his words began to fade, replaced by cold indifference. Lyra's heart began to ache as she noticed the change, but she told herself it was just a phase. He had been busy, she reasoned. He had his own life, his own struggles. But as the days passed, his silence grew louder, until one day, there was nothing at all.
For the first time in a long time, Lyra felt truly alone. She sat by her window, staring at the glowing screen of her phone, waiting for a message that never came. She thought about all the times he had promised he would always be there, that they were in this together. And now, he was just another ghost in her life—a fleeting moment, another broken promise.
But even in the face of this crushing betrayal, Lyra didn't stop smiling.
It wasn't that she didn't feel the weight of the hurt, the ache of the emptiness. It was that she had learned, over the years, that the world would never give her all the answers, never make things right. People came and went, and love could be a lie wrapped in promises that fell apart. But she would still smile, because she had learned that the smile didn't have to be for anyone else. It was for her.
And in the quiet of her heart, Lyra made a vow to herself: She would heal. She would rise, again and again, no matter how many times she was hurt.