when i met drew, i had no idea he’d become the reason i started lying to myself.

it was at some industry thing in malibu — one of those nights where everyone’s face glowed from flashbulbs and champagne, and the ocean sounded expensive. i was the daughter of reese witherspoon, which meant people smiled too wide around me. they asked questions like they already knew the answers. drew didn’t.

he just stared. not rudely. not with pity. just… like he saw something worth ruining himself for.

i think that’s what scared me first.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, and i laughed because i wasn’t sure what that meant. i was always what people expected. the sweet southern charm. the brains. the polish. the legacy.

but he didn’t treat me like a person. not really. he treated me like something he shouldn’t touch.

at first, it was kind. gentle. he opened doors. over-apologized. talked to me like i might disappear if his voice got too loud. like my feelings were a chandelier swinging over a cliff.

but there’s a thin line between tenderness and condescension.

he apologized when i spilled coffee on his sweater. he said sorry for kissing me “too fast.” he apologized when he cried the night his brother relapsed — like his pain might scare me off.

“you just don’t need any more chaos,” he whispered.

i hated how soft he looked when he said it.

i didn’t need to be protected. i needed to be known.

but i didn’t say that. instead, i smiled. nodded. let him carry pieces of me i didn’t remember handing over.

because that’s the thing about being put on a pedestal — it’s lonely as hell up there.

and eventually, you start missing the dirt. the mess. the honesty.

“you’re so composed all the time,” he said once, like it was a compliment.

“maybe i’m just good at hiding shit,” i replied, and he didn’t laugh. he just looked concerned. like my sadness was something he needed to manage.

it made me want to scream.

i wanted to slam cabinets. pick fights. ruin dinner. be real.

but he kept trying to save me. from grief, from stress, from myself.

and i kept pretending that didn’t make me feel like a paper doll with painted-on smiles.

one night, we were sitting on the floor of his apartment. i was venting about some interview that twisted my words. i was pissed. i was messy. i was me.

he reached for my hand and said, “i just hate seeing you upset.”

i pulled away.

“i’m allowed to be upset, drew. god, not everything needs to be smoothed over like i’m gonna fall apart.”

he looked like i’d slapped him.

and maybe i had. just not the way he thought.

because i did love him. more than i wanted to. but love that treats you like glass isn’t love that lasts.

he thought he was doing the right thing. being gentle. safe.

but i didn’t need safe. i needed real.

i needed someone who saw the cracks and didn’t try to glue them shut. someone who’d stand next to me, not above me.

i needed a partner. not a porcelain doll.

and when i said that — when the words finally came out — he just sat there. silent.

not because he didn’t care.

but because he finally realized he didn’t know how to love me any other way.

✦

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