Page 116 of The Art of Ruin

So I keep going. “I had surgery a few years ago. It helped. A lot, actually.” I pull my cardigan tighter around myself, not because I’m cold, but because talking about my body like this still makes me feel weirdly exposed. “Before that, it was a lotworse. More unpredictable. More… life-interrupting, I suppose. I’d spend almost a week a month completely unable to function.”

His jaw shifts slightly. “And now?”

“Now it’s better. I can function. I can live my life. The Mirena IUD helps. Most of the time I don’t even have proper periods anymore, which is why this one annoyed me so much. I thought I’d escaped them for a while.” I huff out a small laugh, but it’s tired around the edges. “Apparently my uterus had other plans.”

He doesn’t smile the way some men do when women mention anything too specific about their bodies, like they don’t know whether they’re meant to be embarrassed or brave. He just listens.

Really listens.

It makes it easier to say the next part. “It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just background noise. Sometimes it’s exhaustion, nausea, pain—all the fun things no one puts on motivational posters.” I glance at him. “And sometimes it knocks me flat for a couple of days, which is inconvenient when you’re trying to convince everyone you’re low-maintenance.”

His gaze stays on mine for a second longer than usual. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller to make other people comfortable.”

The words catch me off guard enough that I let out a quiet laugh. “That sounded suspiciously wise, and actually very sweet.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says dryly.

“Your secret is safe with me, Adi.”

“I know, Tesoro.”

He watches me for another second, and there’s something in his expression that makes my amusement soften before I can stop it. I can’t even think what him calling me Tesoro does to me.

“I don’t like that you’re used to hiding it,” he says.

My throat tightens in a way that catches me off guard, so I look at the fire. “It’s easier.”

“For who?”

The question is quiet, but it hits the mark.

I don’t answer straight away because the truth is too obvious and too uncomfortable. “For everyone,” I say eventually.

His silence feels like disagreement.

Not loud. Not performative.

Just there.

I clear my throat and push myself up before the conversation can get any heavier. “Have you eaten?”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes. Skillfully.”

“No.”

“No, I’m not changing the subject, or no, you haven’t eaten?”

“The second.”

“Adriano, you need to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, look at that,” I say, glancing back at him as I head toward the kitchen. “He uses the line he hates hearing from me.”

That earns me something close to a real smile.