Chapter 3
1369 Words
Chapter 3 – Ghosts of the Past
Cassie’s POV
The next few days pass in a blur of paint samples, measurements, and the sound of drills and hammers. The apartment smells like fresh paint — a sharp, clean scent that fills the air with the promise of something new.
Sam comes and goes like clockwork, always on time, always focused. He doesn’t say much unless I ask questions, but when he does, his words are thoughtful, direct, and just… solid. There’s no guessing with him, no hidden meanings. I like that.
“Pass me the level,” he says one afternoon, his voice calm but firm.
I grab the tool from the kitchen counter and hand it to him. His fingers brush mine briefly — warm, rough from years of work. It’s nothing. Just a split-second touch. But I feel it anyway.
“Thanks,” he says, not noticing, or maybe just not saying anything. He lines up the shelf perfectly, eyes narrowing in concentration.
I lean against the wall, watching him. He’s steady, precise, like everything he does has a purpose. It’s such a sharp contrast to the whirlwind that’s been my life lately.
“So,” I say, just to fill the silence. “Do you do a lot of small projects like this?”
He presses down on the shelf, testing its strength. Satisfied, he steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not usually,” he admits, glancing at me. “I prefer bigger jobs — full renovations, house flips, that kind of thing.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then why take this one?”
For a moment, he’s quiet. His gaze shifts to the window, eyes distant, like he’s thinking about something too far away to reach. “Felt like it was worth it,” he finally says, his voice low but sure.
I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t push.
“Must be nice,” I say, folding my arms. “To know exactly what’s worth your time and what’s not.”
He looks at me then, his eyes meeting mine in that way that feels too intense for something so simple. “It is,” he says plainly. “Once you figure it out, it makes walking away a whole lot easier.”
My heart does a little thump-thump in my chest. I drop my gaze to the floor, pretending to examine a paint smudge on my sock.
---
Later that evening, after Sam leaves, I sit at the kitchen table, eating dinner alone. It's not the first time, but somehow tonight, it feels heavier. The quiet is too loud.
The TV plays softly in the background, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes drift to the divorce papers on the counter, the ones I still haven’t sent in.
Why haven’t I sent them?
I told myself I was done. I told myself I was ready to move on. But part of me keeps thinking, What if he calls? What if he apologizes? What if this whole thing was just a mistake?
No. Stop it.
I push my plate away, appetite gone. My phone buzzes, and for a second, hope flickers. Maybe it’s him.
But it’s not. It’s Lana.
Lana: U good? Want me to come over?
Me: Nah, I’m fine. Just tired.
Lana: U sure? Cuz I will pull up.
I laugh under my breath. That’s Lana — all ride-or-die energy, no hesitation.
Me: Promise. I’m good.
Lana: Ok, but if that snake Henry shows up, call me. I’m not above throwing hands.
I grin, warmth spreading through my chest. Lana's loyalty always hits different.
Just as I’m about to put my phone down, it buzzes again. This time, it’s not Lana. It’s him.
Henry: We need to talk.
Three words. No apology. No explanation. Just we need to talk like he still has the right to ask me for anything.
I stare at the message for so long that my screen dims. My thumb hovers over the reply button, heart racing, mind spiraling.
Don’t do it, Cassie.
But my fingers betray me.
Me: About what?
The dots appear right away. He’s typing.
Henry: Not like this. Can I come over?
I freeze. Come over? After everything? After what he did?
Me: No.
The dots vanish. I lock my phone, hands trembling.
He doesn’t get to come back.
I grab the divorce papers and shove them into an envelope. Tomorrow, I’ll mail them. Tomorrow, I’ll be free.
---
The next day, I’m at the post office, envelope in hand, heart pounding like I’m about to jump out of a plane. There’s a small line, but I barely notice it. My eyes are locked on the blue mailbox near the counter.
When it’s finally my turn, the woman behind the counter smiles at me. “Sending something important?” she asks, eyes kind.
“Yeah,” I say, my fingers tightening on the envelope. “Something really important.”
She nods, like she understands. I slide it across the counter, and she stamps it before dropping it into the bin behind her.
It’s gone. Just like that.
I walk out of the post office into the cold winter air, letting it sting my face. My breath clouds in front of me, but I breathe deeper, fuller.
You did it, Cassie.
The relief is so strong, I almost laugh.
---
That night, I’m back in my apartment, curled up on the couch with a blanket over my legs. The TV is on, but I’m not really watching it. My mind is quiet for the first time in weeks.
Until there’s a knock on the door.
I frown, pulling the blanket tighter around me. It’s after 8 p.m. Who’s knocking this late?
“Who is it?” I call, not moving from the couch.
There’s no answer. Just silence.
Another knock, louder this time.
Maybe it’s Sam, I think, though I doubt it. He never comes this late.
I stand slowly, walking toward the door, my heart picking up speed with every step.
“Who’s there?” I ask again, voice firm this time.
This time, there’s a reply.
“It’s me, Cassie,” says a voice I know too well. Henry.
I grip the doorframe, pulse racing.
“Go away, Henry,” I call through the door. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Cass, just open the door. Five minutes, that’s all I need,” he says, his voice smoother than it should be. Too smooth. Like he thinks I’ll fall for it.
“No,” I snap, my voice hard as steel. “I’m done, Henry.”
Silence.
For a second, I think he’s left, but then I hear a soft thud against the door, like he pressed his head against it.
“Please, Cassie,” he says, quieter this time. “Please don’t do this.”
His voice sounds so raw, so broken, it twists something in my chest.
But then I remember the girl on New Year’s Eve. Her hand on his arm. His smile, his laugh — the same laugh he used to give me.
I step back from the door like it’s toxic. “Goodbye, Henry,” I say, louder this time.
Silence again. Then footsteps.
I wait until I hear them fade down the hall. My breath comes fast, my hands shaking. I lock the door, triple-check it, and then lean my forehead against it, eyes closed.
I’m okay. I’m okay.
But something feels off.
I turn, glancing around the apartment, every shadow suddenly darker, every sound suddenly sharper. I step toward the window, peeking through the curtain.
The street below is empty, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching.
I close the curtain tightly, my heart still thudding too loud in my chest.
He’s gone, I tell myself. He’s gone.
But when I glance back at the window, I swear I see a shadow move.
Not on the street.
On the fire escape.
I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
The shadow shifts again, then vanishes.
I back away slowly, my hands cold as ice.
Don’t panic, Cassie. Don’t panic.
But deep down, I know.
I’m not alone.
- Writer
