Erica had always moved through life as a background character in her own story.
At home, her silence was assumed to be strength. No one asked her what she wanted to eat, how her day went, or if she needed a hug. Her achievements were expected. Her feelings were optional.
She never said it out loud, but a part of her always ached for something simple-attention. Not the loud, showy kind. Just the kind that makes you feel real.
And Max gave her that.
He remembered the small things. The way she bit her nails when she was anxious. The song she hummed while sketching. The scar on her wrist she got from her first oil painting accident. He saw her-not just the art, or the ambition, or the quiet-but the raw, tired girl beneath it.
And when he looked at her, she felt chosen.
He texted good morning before anyone else. Sent her quotes at 2 AM with, "This reminded me of you."
He listened, really listened, like her words had weight.
No one had ever made her feel like she was enough just by existing.
Slowly, she started sharing parts of herself she never had. Childhood memories. Nightmares. Her fear of being ordinary. Her ache to be loved, not for her strength, but for her softness.
She told herself it was safe. That this was what connection looked like.
And Max-he played the perfect part.
"I think you're dangerous," he once said, tracing the edge of her sketchbook.
"Why?" she asked, smiling.
"Because you have no idea how powerful you are."
It felt like love. Maybe it was.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Because sometimes, love is the bait.
And attention is the trap.