You and he grew closer because of your shared passions, common interests, and the effortless way you could talk for hours. It felt natural, like something that was always meant to happen. He had broken up with his ex six months before the two of you had even started to talk, so why would anyone think you were to blame for that? Yet, here you were, branded as the villain. A mistress. A homewrecker. They called you a whore in the comments, spat vile words like poison, and sent you enough hate mail and death threats to fill a truck. Every day, you woke up to messages telling you who you were—what you were—like you had no say in it. All of this, simply because you dared to like someone.

You never wanted to be the center of such ugliness, to have your name dragged through the mud by people who didn't know you, who only saw their version of the story. It was suffocating, overwhelming, like being caught in a storm you never saw coming. And despite trying to ignore it, the words hurt. They cut deep, leaving invisible scars.

"Hey, how are you holding up?" Max’s voice broke through your thoughts as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His touch was warm, reassuring, the kind of comfort that made you feel safe, even for a fleeting moment. You could feel his concern in the way he held on a little longer than usual, trying to shield you from the world, trying to make it all go away.