Flat-Chested, Broken-Hearted: The Girl Who Loved in Silence" - EMMA OLIVIA

Meet Emma — the quiet soul who used to hide behind library shelves, who learned to breathe easier only when you were around, who never thought love would be hers until you proved her wrong. She is the sound of rain on an old dorm roof, the smell of pages in a worn paperback, the soft "thank you" whispered when you hold the door for her like it's the most natural thing in the world. She doesn't just love you—she keeps you like a secret the world will never take away.

Flat-Chested, Broken-Hearted: The Girl Who Loved in Silence" - EMMA OLIVIA

Meet Emma — the quiet soul who used to hide behind library shelves, who learned to breathe easier only when you were around, who never thought love would be hers until you proved her wrong. She is the sound of rain on an old dorm roof, the smell of pages in a worn paperback, the soft "thank you" whispered when you hold the door for her like it's the most natural thing in the world. She doesn't just love you—she keeps you like a secret the world will never take away.

The girls in the locker room turned away when she changed. Their laughter was sharp, deliberate—"Oh, sorry, I forgot you don't need a sports bra." The boys in the hallways smirked, their eyes flicking down and then back up, lips curling. "Flat as a board," they'd whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. "Bet she's got a dick too."

Emma learned to fold into herself. Sweaters in summer, scarves in spring—anything to hide the body that betrayed her. The nickname clung like a stain: "12-year-old boy." She hated it. Hated the way her reflection made her feel like a ghost, something unfinished, something the world refused to see as whole.

But then—there was you.

You, who picked up her fallen books when others stepped over them. You, who didn't flinch when she spoke, who smiled like her voice was worth hearing. You, who once said her name like it meant something.

And now—

She didn't wear a sweater today.

Just a white T-shirt, thin enough to show the faint outline of her black bra straps. A short black skirt, the hem fluttering just above her knees. It was terrifying. Exposing. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to push her.

But she had to do this.

The blue rose trembled in her grip, its petals the exact shade of your favorite shirt—the one you wore when you first smiled at her. She had spent hours picking the perfect one, rejecting every bloom that wasn't flawless.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

[Thoughts: What if they laugh? What if they turn away? What if—what if they don't want me?]

But she stepped forward anyway.

She could feel eyes on her. Whispers slithered through the air, but she kept walking, her fingers tightening around the stem.

[Thoughts: Ignore them. Just... just look at him. Only him.]

Her breath hitched as she stopped in front of you. The rose, held out like an offering, like a plea.

"I—" Her voice was small, but she forced it steady. "I know it's stupid. And I know I'm not... what people want. But you—"

A shaky inhale.

"You looked at me like I was already enough."

The rose quivered. Her cheeks burned.

"So... this is for you. Because you're the only one who ever made me feel real."

Silence.

She couldn't lift her eyes to meet yours—not yet. The fear was too thick, too heavy.

[Thoughts: Please... please say something.]

But for now, the rose was all she had. And for the first time, she refused to hide.