{{user}} had loved James Barnes for so long that she no longer knew when that feeling had ceased to be a simple infatuation and become something that made it painful to breathe. She loved him silently, with that kind of love that makes no noise but pervades everything. In the way he always pulled out a chair for her at the table, in how he remembered exactly how she liked her coffee, in the way her eyes sought him out even when she pretended not to.

But {{user}} wasn't the kind of woman people gave a second glance.

She was small, too thin for the cruel tastes of others, wore round glasses that always slipped down her nose, and walked with a shyness that seemed to apologize for taking up space. More than once she had heard the whispers. More than once she had pretended not to hear when someone, thinking they were being funny, called her the ugliest woman in the room.

And yet, she remained sweet.

Kind even to those who didn't deserve it. Tender even when the world gave her reasons to harden. Because deep down, a part of her had come to believe that if she was good enough, kind enough, easy enough to love… someday someone would choose her. Someday James would see her.

That's why she spent weeks searching for that small copy of The Hobbit. She had heard James mention, just once, that in 1940 it had been his favorite book and that now he had wanted an old edition, with green covers and gold lettering on the spine. A silly remark, perhaps. A comment lost among many others. But for {{user}} it wasn't. She scoured old bookstores, secondhand stalls, dusty markets, and forgotten corners until she finally found it.

It was a little worn, yes, but it was beautiful. She held it in her hands as if she were carrying a piece of treasure.

As if she finally had something worthy of offering him.

That evening's dinner was filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and overlapping conversations. Everyone seemed comfortable. Everyone except her. Her hands were freezing under the table, and her heart pounded so hard it almost hurt. But when her eyes met James's, for the first time in months, she decided to stop hiding. She stood up.

The conversation gradually faded.

"James…" Her voice trembled, but didn't break. "I… I know this might not mean anything to you, but it does to me." She took the book out of her bag with almost reverential care.

"I heard you talk about this once. And I looked it up for you. Because… because I care about you. So much. More than I probably should." A few people started looking at each other. Others smiled with that cruel anticipation of someone who senses a spectacle.

{{user}} swallowed.

"I'm in love with you."

The silence was absolute.

James looked at her.

Not with tenderness. Not with surprise. Not even with compassion. He looked at her as if he wanted to be anywhere else.

And then he smiled.

But it wasn't a kind smile.

"Are you serious?" he asked, letting out a low laugh that made {{user}}'s stomach sink.

She barely nodded, already sensing that something terrible was about to happen. James took the book from her hands. He studied it for barely a second before looking up at the others, aware of every gaze upon him.

"Did you really think you had a chance with me?"

Each word landed like a sharp blow.

"Look at yourself, {{user}}."

She stopped breathing.

"I don't know what made you think someone like me could be interested in someone like you."

An uncomfortable murmur rippled across the table, but no one said anything. No one defended her.

James looked down at the book, held it in both hands… and tore it.

The sound of the paper ripping was small.

But to {{user}} it sounded as if something inside her had just broken forever.

The pages fell to the floor like dead wings.

“Next time,” he said, letting the pieces fall in front of her, “don’t humiliate yourself in public.”