Chapter Two
1057 Words
Scott set the box on the kitchen counter, then ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
What the hell was that?
She’d appeared out of nowhere, pink-cheeked, half-laughing, trying to talk around a piece of toast. Her hands had fluttered as she talked, her words just a little breathless, and she’d smiled at him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Offered up her address to him--a literal stranger--like they were old friends catching up.
Her name had trailed behind her like perfume. Just five minutes of interaction and she’d left an impression—uninvited, inexplicably bright, like sunlight slipping through blinds when you’re still in bed trying not to feel.
She didn’t know what kind of man lived next door.
And she didn’t know what kind of damage men like him carried.
She was lucky it had been him, that she caught him on the kind of morning where his patience still outweighed his instinct to retreat. Anyone else...
He didn’t let the thought finish. Not your business, he told himself.
Scott tuned all thoughts except those related to the move. Box by box, trip by trip, he and the movers steadily loaded all of his belongings into the space. It was afternoon when they'd finally finished. Scott signed the e-document presented to him confirming the number of hours worked, and the men were gone.
On autopilot, he immediately dove into unpacking. Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom--essentials first, anything he didn't need right away. He broke down boxes and straightened up as he went, the efficiency of the task grounding him.
Hours later, he knelt beside the last box, forcing his focus onto the items inside.
Books. Cables. A few worn notebooks. His external drives, coiled precisely in their sleeves. A framed photo, still wrapped in tissue. One he hadn’t dared open since the move.
He left it buried.
Instead, he stacked. Sorted. Organized. That was safe. That was clean. That didn’t ask anything of him.
People were messy.
People broke you, slowly and with a smile.
People like Eve.
She hadn’t screamed on the first night. She hadn’t slammed doors or thrown things--not until later. At first, she had simply unmade him in smaller ways. A dig here. A correction there. A half-smile after twisting his words into something ugly and insisting it was a joke.
Then the silence would come. The distance. Until she reeled him back in with honeyed smiles and apologies. Until he forgot, again, how to tell when the pain started.
And she always looked so perfect.
Even when she cried.
...
She stood in the doorway of their old apartment, framed by morning light, white-blonde hair straight and immaculate, like it had just been flat-ironed to perfection. Her pale pink robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, like it always did when she wanted to look fragile. Her lashes were thick and fluttering, mascara untouched--waterproof, always waterproof--and her eyes rimmed in that glowy, dewy shimmer that made even anger look photogenic.
Scott stood across from her, heart pounding. “Evie, I didn’t raise my voice. I was calm.”
“You always say that,” she replied, voice shaking just enough. “You always paint me like the monster.”
He blinked. “You threw my hard drive across the room.”
“You backed me into a corner emotionally, and then act surprised when I lash out. You’ve been cold for weeks, Scott. Weeks.”
He stared at her. “I’ve been working. Trying to finish the contract so we could—”
“So you could what?” she snapped, tears beginning to form in the corners of her flawless eyes. “Neglect me without reason?”
He faltered.
And she softened, instantly. A single crystalline tear rolled down her cheek. Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
He'd never stood a chance.
By the end of that conversation, he was the one apologizing—for making her feel unloved. For defending himself. For forgetting, once again, that Eve’s pain always rewrote the truth.
Looking back, he should have seen it sooner. The way she isolated him slowly—how friends stopped calling, how his brother’s texts sat unanswered for so long it became too awkward to reply. How she made him feel selfish for wanting space, for needing air.
The pitying glances from her friends when they thought she wasn’t watching. The long silences at parties. The moments when people would shift uncomfortably and change the subject if he mentioned how tired he was, how "tense" things had been lately.
And worst of all—the way he had learned to read her mood the second she entered a room. The way his whole body had adjusted to her emotional temperature before either of them had spoken a word.
That wasn’t love, it was survival.
Scott swallowed hard and turned back to his box.
Lucille’s face floated behind his eyes again—her wide blue gaze, the way she’d beamed at him like she was truly happy to meet him. She had no idea what kind of man he was. What kind of man he could be.
And he didn’t want her to find out. He didn't want to find out. He hated already how much she'd affected him in that hurried moment outside.
If she was anything like Eve, beneath the light and the syrupy sweetness, then she could shatter what little he’d rebuilt.
And if she wasn’t? If she really was kind, and open, and unguarded—then he could ruin her just as easily.
Getting ahead of myself, he brooded. I don't know her any better than she knows me. She was being friendly, neighborly. I probably won't even see her again. I really shouldn't see her again.
Scott stacked his notebooks. Aligned his chargers. Tightened every coil of cable until it lay neat and silent.
He didn’t need the attention of the pretty girl next door. He didn’t need possibility. He certainly didn't want or need to go chasing love again.
He needed silence.
He needed distance.
He needed to stay invisible.
Keep to yourself, he reminded his head, his heart. Keep your head down.
Keep safe.
Because love was a beautiful lie.
And he wasn’t falling for it again.
- Writer
