Chapter 5
1605 Words
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I should’ve known better than to pretend I’d buried it.
Seeing Eli again—suit pressed, voice calm, just close enough to feel his presence in the air—shook something loose in me. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Something dangerous.
By the time I got home that night, the mask I wore all day was cracking at the corners. My keys clattered onto the countertop. I kicked off my heels, pulled the pins from my hair, and let my shoulder bag slide to the floor. My apartment was dim, quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled behind thick windows.
And yet, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
I poured a glass of wine and sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers curling around the stem of the glass. I stared at the swirling liquid, crimson and silent.
Then it came rushing back.
The memory I swore I’d locked away.
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It was raining that night. Not the soft, romantic kind of rain—this was the heavy, rhythmic kind that soaked through coats and made the streets smell like concrete and regret.
I remember juggling my laptop, the umbrella I forgot, and a dripping brown takeout bag. I was soaked to the knees and exhausted, but I smiled anyway. I was excited. Proud, even. I left the office early for once. I wanted to surprise him.
Eli had been working late all week. I missed him.
I bought his favorite—Korean takeout, bibimbap with extra spice, and those honey rice cakes he pretended not to like but always ate first. I even added a bottle of plum wine. Dumb, romantic little thing.
Our apartment lights were off when I got in, but I could hear music playing softly—some slow, sultry track I didn’t recognize. I assumed he was winding down after a long day. Maybe in the bath. Maybe waiting in bed.
I didn’t call out. I wanted to walk in and see his face light up.
Instead, I heard something else.
A laugh. Light, feminine, breathy.
I froze in the entryway. My fingers clenched around the takeout bag, my brain short-circuiting.
No.
No.
Not possible.
I walked down the hallway. My feet made no sound against the wood floors. The bedroom door was open an inch—just enough.
I shouldn’t have looked.
But I did.
And I will never forget what I saw.
Eli. Shirtless. Leaning over a woman with long dark hair. She giggled, arching into him like they’d done this a dozen times. The sheets were twisted, the pillows a mess. Our bed. Our damn bed.
I stood there.
Frozen.
Paralyzed.
The bag slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a wet splat. The rice cakes exploded on impact, bursting open like a cruel little joke.
He turned.
His eyes widened.
“Celeste—”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just stared at him, and then at her, as she scrambled to pull the sheet around herself.
I wanted to scream. To throw something. To collapse.
Instead, my voice came out quiet. Too quiet. “I left early to surprise you.”
He took a step toward me, hands raised like he was approaching a frightened animal. “I can explain—”
I laughed. Just once. Cold. Bitter. “Can you?”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
That phrase. That stupid, worn-out excuse.
I shook my head slowly. “It meant enough for you to bring her here. Into our home. Into our bed.”
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t care what came next. I turned around and walked out of the room. Out of the apartment. I didn’t take anything but my phone. I didn’t look back.
I didn’t need to.
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Back in the present, the wine glass trembled in my hand.
That night shattered something in me. Something soft. Something trusting. I’d built walls after that. Walls made of steel and logic and paperwork. I told myself I was better for it. Smarter. Stronger.
And yet today, in that conference room, with Eli at my side and Ash watching me like he could read every thought I had—I felt it again.
That crack.
That splinter just under the surface.
God, I hated that.
I hated that Eli still had the power to shake me.
I hated that Ash saw it.
I hated that I still remembered how it felt to be destroyed.
And most of all, I hated that part of me—some lonely, vulnerable part buried deep—still wanted to believe in something.
Something more than power.
More than revenge.
Something dangerously close to love.
It’s strange how something as ordinary as silence can bring back the loudest memories.
Tonight, my apartment is quiet—eerily so. The hum of the fridge, the distant rush of traffic below, the occasional creak of the wood floors. All the usual sounds. And yet, it feels like something else is here with me. Something invisible but impossible to ignore.
Memories.
Eli’s ghost, not in the haunting sense, but in the way he lingers in the corners of my mind when I’m too tired to fight it. I sink into the couch, pulling my knees up, wrapping my arms around them like I can hold myself together.
And suddenly I’m back there—back in that simpler, softer version of my life.
He used to leave sticky notes in my coffee mug. Bright yellow squares with terrible doodles or cheesy one-liners that made me roll my eyes. "Monday is cancelled. Let’s run away instead." Or "This mug isn’t worthy of the goddess who holds it." I’d laugh under my breath every time, but I never threw them away. I had a drawer full of them once.
He always walked me home. Always. Even when we fought, even when I told him I didn’t need him. He would still show up outside the office, hands shoved in his coat pockets, carrying a hot cup of tea with just the right amount of honey. “You look like hell,” he’d joke. “Let me walk you back to earth.”
And I’d let him. Even in silence, it felt right.
There was a night—I remember it too vividly—when I came home in tears. I’d lost a case. A brutal one. My client deserved better. I felt like I’d failed everyone. I barely made it through the door before he was there, arms around me, anchoring me. He didn’t ask what happened. He just held me until I stopped shaking, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”
He wasn’t the best cook, but he tried. Every Sunday, he’d wake up before me and attempt pancakes. They were always a little burnt on the edges, uneven and misshapen, but he served them like a five-star chef. “Charred just how you like them,” he’d wink. And I’d pretend to complain while secretly loving every bite.
He braided my hair once when I was too tired to lift my arms. I’d collapsed on the bed after another eighteen-hour shift. He sat beside me, fumbling with strands of hair, tongue between his teeth in concentration. “I Googled it,” he muttered. I was too exhausted to laugh, but I remember thinking—God, I could fall asleep like this. And I did.
He used to warm my hands in his jacket pockets during winter. Pull them in without asking, like it was second nature. And his hands were always warm. Always.
I think that’s what I miss most.
Not the romance. Not the s*x. Not even the laughter.
Just the warmth.
The quiet comfort of being understood. The way he’d look at me across the room like I was some great mystery he never wanted to solve—just admire.
I stare at the ceiling now, the soft thrum of the city far below me, and wonder how someone who made me feel so safe could become the same person who shattered that feeling completely.
I still remember the way he kissed my temple every time he left for work, even when we were running late. The way he listened when I vented about court briefs or stupid partners. “You’re too good for them,” he’d say, wrapping his arms around me like a shield.
And I believed him. For a time, I really did.
I press my palm to my chest, just beneath the collarbone, where the ache has settled. It’s dull but constant, like an old bruise. Familiar.
Grief isn’t always about death. Sometimes, it’s mourning the person someone used to be. The version you loved. The future you thought you’d have.
Sometimes, I miss that version of Eli. The one who saw me—really saw me—when no one else did.
And even now, with everything he did, I still wish he had stayed that man.
I open the window, letting the cool city air brush against my skin. Lights flicker below. The world is moving on, as it always does. But here, in my little corner of the night, I allow myself to miss him.
Not to forgive.
Not to go back.
Just… to feel.
“I loved you once,” I whisper to no one. “That was real.”
And then I close the window, turn off the lights, and let the darkness hold me like he used to.
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- Writer
