Page 159 of Love Unwritten

Although I know it isn’t the case, it feels like this was written for someone like me, and I see avid fans praising Ava for her lyricism and vulnerability. For her courage.

It makes me sick to my stomach to know Ellie was the one who poured her heart out without ever getting recognition for her work. My revulsion intensifies as I pull up Ava’s latest song, “Silver Scars.” It’s clear to me that the newest hit was written by Ellie, and just like the others, she isn’t listed in the credits.

Tried to numb the pain with the bite of steel,

But only created new scars that never truly healed.

Turned my body into a broken masterpiece,

All because I needed temporary release.

I can’t make it past the first verse. It isn’t that I don’t want to continue reading, because I do, but doing so without Ellie’s consent feels wrong, especially when she had no part in releasing the song in the first place. While I have no idea why Ava chose to release it now, I can only assume it was meant to hurt Ellie one last time.

I lock my phone and stare up at the ceiling.

Fuck.

Is that how Ellie views herself? Like a broken masterpiece? Knowing she has spent God knows how long seeing herself like that makes me so angry that I lose all sense of control and head directly to Ellie’s room.

She isn’t a broken masterpiece, and if I need to prove it to her, I will.

Fuck boundaries and lines in the sand. My unrestrained emotions are like a wave, erasing them from existence.

I lightly knock on the wood door so as not to wake Nico. It swings open a few seconds later, and Ellie stands in front of me in another matching set of pajamas that hides her tattoos and scars from my view.

I hate it, especially now that I have a better idea of why she wears them.

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks.

“No.” I spit out the word before reminding myself to calm down. “Sorry. I’m just upset and needed to see you.”

She motions for me to enter before shutting the door behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Now? It’s ten p.m.”

I search the room for her guitar and hold it out for her to grab. “Here.”

She looks down at the instrument in confusion. “You want me to play a song?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to read about your silver scars. I want to hear you sing about them.”

Her grip on the guitar slips before she readjusts it. “No one was supposed to know about that song.”

I swallow back my anger. “But Ava betrayed you. Again.”

She nods.

“Will you sing it for me?” I ask in a soft voice.

“No.” She takes a step back and shakes her head. “I write songs—I don’t perform them.”

“What about the time you sang at Last Call?”