CHAPTER 5
718 Words
His pov
I stand at the front desk waiting for my usual order. I could’ve had it delivered today like usual but I chose otherwise since I was just a few blocks away from the bakery.
I pocket my phone when I hear the sound of the swinging doors from the kitchen.
I notice her before I realized I was looking.
I see the most eye catching shade of red, not a natural hue I could tell.
Her red hair is in a rough bun, although it would’ve looked better falling over her shoulders.
Brown eyes, darker than mine but not black. Her pale caramel skin. Not the soft kind-No, the kind that hadn’t seen rest in a long time. It shows in the faint dark under her eyes.
I could count the few freckles sampled on her cheeks.
I stare at her for a moment, she would’ve said something but she’s too distracted by my presence. She’s accessing me too.
I realized I’d been watching her longer than I should have.
She noticed too.
Our eyes met for a second—just long enough to make it obvious.
Most people would’ve looked away, maybe smiled awkwardly, pretended nothing happened.
She didn’t.
She just… held the look.
Not challenging. Not inviting.
Just aware.
It was enough to make me speak.
“Is it ready?” I asked, nodding slightly toward the box in her hands.
Nothing.
Not even a word.
She blinked once, like she was processing something, then shifted the box toward me across the counter.
Still silent.
My brows furrow in a slightly confused motion.
Then she moves.
Her hands.
Sign language.
That explained the silence.
Or maybe it didn’t.
Because there was something about it that didn’t feel simple.
Most people who couldn’t speak still made some kind of effort—gestures, expressions, something to fill the gap.
She didn’t.
Her silence wasn’t empty.
It was… deliberate.
Looked that way to me.
Like words were a choice she had already decided against.
At therapy;
The room smelled disgusting.
I think she said something about citrus oat.
What the f**k even is that.
The room had this unnerving quiet, the kind that deceives you to think you’re safe.
Bullshit.
"At least a greeting would be nice." Grace says as she picks up her pen.
Good evening, I sign reluctantly.
Grace: so..alexandra
If I could speak I would’ve cussed the hell at her. She knows I hate that name.
My face is already set in a frown.
Apparently she believes using it would make me talk, open up, share my thoughts.
“Sometimes revisiting who we were can help us understand who we’ve become.” she says.
Another bullshit.
It’s not happening.
I hate her.
Even when I sign she doesn’t understand much.
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of my notebook.
“Can you look at me, Alexandra?”
I did.
Slowly.
She was older. Mid-forties, maybe. The kind of face that tried too hard to look kind but deep down wasn’t.
Glasses perched neatly on her nose. Legs crossed. Pen ready.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
She loves this checkered skirt too much, probably her favorite or she doesn't have lots of clothes.
“Good,” she said, like I’d done something worth praising. “That’s progress.”
It wasn’t.
"So…
She starts
"Have you indulged in the exercise we agreed on."
We didn’t agree on anything, she just told me to write what I felt. Whatever came to mind.
Pretty sure she’s just wants to show the jury evidence, trying to make it look like she’s actually doing something.
Yes. Another bullshit.
This lady is just full of bullshit.
This entire thing is in fact bullshit.
I hand over the note to her and watch as she absorbs the contents written within them.
“You described the accident. Very vividly.”
A pause.
She expects me to do something but I don’t and then she continues asking series of questions in between of which I tried to answer some without standing up just to pluck out her eyes.
She was annoying me, always has.
Its 8:30 now.
"Alexandra," she calls out. There’s a slight tremor in her voice as she speaks now.
I wonder why.
I know why, but of course I pretend not to.
- Writer
