THE PART OF ME HE NEVER LOVED- PART TWO

I used to think the beginning of a relationship was the hardest part. You don't know where you stand. You don't know whether the person is serious. You don't know whether the things they say are promises or just words that sound good in the moment. I was wrong. The hardest part is when you finally feel safe. Because once you feel safe, you stop looking for reasons to leave. And I was very safe with Alfred. At least, I thought I was. He knew how to make ordinary days feel important. If I had a bad writing day, he'd call. If I finished a chapter, he'd be the first person I told. When one of my stories was rejected by a publisher, I cried on the phone while he listened. He didn't try to give me some motivational speech. He simply said, “You know you're still a writer tomorrow, right?” I laughed through my tears. “Yes.” “Then you're fine.” I loved that about him. He never made me feel like my failures changed how he saw me. There were nights when we'd sit in his car for hours without going anywhere. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes we'd argue. Sometimes we'd just listen to music with our hands intertwined between us. And sometimes, he'd look at me in a way that made me forget whatever I had been saying. “You're beautiful,” he'd whisper. I'd roll my eyes. “You've said that a thousand times.” “I'll say it another thousand.” “You're obsessed.” “Maybe.” I'd laugh. Then he'd pull me closer. There was something almost intoxicating about being wanted by someone you were beginning to love. And I was beginning to love Alfred. Not because he was perfect. He wasn't. He could be stubborn. He hated apologising. He sometimes disappeared into his own head when he was stressed. But I knew those things. And I loved him anyway. Or at least, I thought I did. One Saturday afternoon, we went shopping. I came out of the fitting room wearing a dress I had picked up on a whim. Alfred looked up. For a moment, he didn't say anything. “What?” He smiled. “Nothing.” “You're staring.” “I know.” I laughed. He stood up and walked toward me. “That dress.” “What about it?” “You should get it.” “You like it?” “I really like it.” There was something in his voice that made me blush. I turned toward the mirror. “Maybe I'll buy it.” “You're definitely buying it.” I smiled. But as we walked out of the store, I noticed something. He hadn't asked what I thought about the dress. He hadn't asked whether I was comfortable in it. He had simply looked at me and decided he liked what he saw. It was such a small thing. I forgot about it before we got home. There were always small things. That's the problem with small things. You can explain each one away. One evening, I was telling Alfred about an idea for a novel. I had been working on it for months. “It’s about a woman who spends her entire life trying to become the kind of person everyone else will love.” He was lying beside me, scrolling through his phone. “Hmm.” I continued. “She eventually realises she doesn't even know who she is anymore.” “That's good.” “You weren't listening.” “I was.” “What did I just say?” He looked up. I smiled. He smiled back. “Something about a woman.” I hit him with a pillow. “You're terrible.” He laughed. “I'm listening now.” But I didn't continue. I didn't know why. Maybe because some conversations are more meaningful when the person you're talking to actually wants to hear them. I told myself he was tired. I told myself everyone had days when they couldn't listen. I told myself love wasn't supposed to mean being fascinated by everything your partner said. And maybe I was right. Maybe I was overthinking. Then there was the night I said no. It wasn't dramatic. There was no argument. No raised voice. Nothing that would have made me immediately question his character. We were together at his apartment. We had been kissing for a while when I gently pulled away. “Not tonight.” He stopped immediately. “Okay.” I smiled. “Thank you.” He kissed my forehead. “It's fine.” And it was. At least, I thought it was. But something changed afterward. Not enough to frighten me. Just enough to make me notice. He became quiet. He checked his phone more often. He didn't stay as long as he usually did. When I asked if something was wrong, he said he was tired. I believed him. The following day, he sent me a message like nothing had happened. Alfred: Good morning, beautiful. I stared at it. Then smiled. See? Nothing was wrong. That was what I told myself. A few weeks later, he met my closest friend, Mira. We were having dinner when she excused herself to take a phone call. As soon as she left the table, Alfred leaned toward me. “Your friend is beautiful.” I laughed. “Should I be worried?” He laughed too. “I'm talking about you.” I narrowed my eyes. “You just said she was beautiful.” “I said she was beautiful. I didn't say I wanted her.” I shook my head. “Men.” He smiled and squeezed my hand. But something about the conversation stayed with me. Not because I thought he wanted Mira. I trusted him. At least, I thought I did. I trusted him enough to stop questioning the things that made me uncomfortable. Then came my birthday. Alfred surprised me. He had arranged a small dinner with candles, flowers and a handwritten letter. I cried when I read it. He had written about the first day we met. About the café. About my unfinished story. About the rain. He remembered everything. I hugged him tightly. “You really love me.” He held me. “I do.” And just like that, every doubt disappeared. Because what kind of man remembers the first sentence you wrote when he met you if he doesn't genuinely care about you? I didn't ask myself that question. I didn't want to. That night, after everyone left, Alfred and I sat alone. He touched my face. “I don't think you understand how beautiful you are.” I smiled. “You've told me.” “I mean it.” “I know.” He kissed me. I kissed him back. And for a while, nothing existed outside that room. Not my doubts. Not my questions. Not the little things I had noticed and dismissed. Just us. Maybe that's why the next thing hurt so much. It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. I was at Alfred's apartment waiting for him to return from work. He had asked me to stay because he wanted us to have dinner together. I was sitting on his couch, scrolling through my phone when I noticed a photograph on the shelf. It wasn't a picture of us. It was a photograph of Alfred with another woman. She was beautiful. Very beautiful. I picked it up. On the back was a date. Two years before he met me. I smiled to myself. An ex. Nothing unusual. I put it back. Then I noticed another photograph. Different woman. Different year. I picked that one up too. Then another. And another. I stood there for a long time. Four women. Four different years. Four photographs. All of them looked strangely familiar. Not their faces. Something else. Their body types. I looked at the pictures again. Then I heard the door open. I quickly put them back. Alfred walked in carrying groceries. “Hey.” “Hey.” He kissed me. “You okay?” “Yeah.” He looked at me for a second. “You're quiet.” “I'm fine.” He smiled. “Liar.” I laughed. He took the groceries into the kitchen. I watched him. For the first time since we'd met, I wondered what I actually knew about the man standing in front of me. That night, after he fell asleep, I lay awake beside him. I looked at his face. The same face I had kissed. The same face I trusted. The same face that had listened to me cry over my writing. I reached for his phone. Then stopped. I wasn't the kind of woman who searched through someone's phone. If I had to search for proof that someone loved me, then something was already wrong. So I put my hand back beneath the pillow. And closed my eyes. The next morning, Alfred kissed my forehead before leaving. “See you tonight.” “Okay.” He smiled. Then he left. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time. Something was bothering me. I just couldn't name it. Later that afternoon, I went to the café where we first met. I opened my laptop. I tried to write. Nothing came. Instead, I kept thinking about those photographs. Four women. Four years. Four different relationships. And somehow, all of them looked like me. I was still staring at the blank page when my phone rang. It was Alfred. “Hey, beautiful.” “Hi.” “You sound strange.” “Alfred?” “Hmm?” “Can I ask you something?” “Anything.” “Those women in the photographs at your apartment…” Silence. Just for a second. But I heard it. “What about them?” “Who are they?” He laughed softly. “Old relationships.” “Oh.” “Why?” “I was just curious.” Another silence. Then he said something that should have made me feel better. Instead, it made my stomach turn. “They don't matter anymore.” I swallowed. “Okay.” “I love you, Freya.” I closed my eyes. “I love you too.” We ended the call. I stared at my laptop. Then I opened my unfinished manuscript. The story was about a woman who couldn't understand why she kept falling for men who loved the version of her that was easiest to desire. I had written that sentence months before Alfred. I had thought it was fiction. Now I wasn't so sure. That evening, I received a message from an unknown number. There was no greeting. No name. Just a photograph. I opened it. My heart stopped. It was Alfred. With one of the women from the photographs. But this wasn't an old picture. It was recent. Very recent. And beneath the photograph was a single sentence: “Freya, you need to find out what happened to the women before you.”

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