obsessed over you

chapter 3

The lively hum of conversation and music filled the famous bar as Ethan walked in, his cold demeanor drawing a few glances from the crowd. He was dressed sharply, his presence commanding despite his aloof air. Jason was already seated in one of the private rooms, a playful grin spreading across his face as he spotted his old friend.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the ghost of Ethan,” Jason teased, standing to greet him. “Back from the land of nowhere, huh?”

Ethan gave a curt nod, his lips twitching ever so slightly at the corners. “Good to see you, Jason,” he said, his voice calm and steady.

Jason gestured for him to sit. “Five years, man. Feels like a lifetime. How’ve you been holding up?”

Ethan shrugged as he settled into his chair. “Busy. Focused.”

Jason leaned in slightly, his tone turning cautious but curious. “Does your family know you’re back yet?”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “No. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough. Let’s focus on catching up instead. Drinks?”

Ethan nodded, his gaze flickering to the table as Jason signaled for service.

---

Downstairs, Rachel was at the bar when a server approached her. “Private room just ordered whiskey. Kyra, can you take this up?”

Kyra, lost in her thoughts, barely registered Rachel’s words. She nodded, grabbing the tray of whiskey glasses and heading for the stairs. Her mood was sour—grief and frustration weighing heavily on her after her visit to her father’s grave earlier that evening.

When she entered the private room, she barely glanced at the two men seated at the table. One had a charming, easy smile, while the other radiated a quiet but intense coldness.

“Here’s your order,” Kyra muttered, her mind elsewhere as she approached the table.

But in her distracted state, she misjudged the weight of the tray. A glass tipped, spilling its contents all over the cold man’s expensive jacket.

Ethan shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Are you blind?” he snapped, his tone sharp and cutting.

Kyra froze, mortified. “I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, fumbling for a napkin.

Jason quickly intervened, holding up his hands. “Whoa, Ethan, calm down. It’s just whiskey.”

But Ethan wasn’t listening. His piercing gaze had locked onto Kyra’s face, recognition dawning. She was the girl from the cemetery—the one crying at her father’s grave, her grief raw and unfiltered.

For a moment, he said nothing, his anger giving way to surprise. “It’s you,” he said finally, his voice low.

Kyra blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

Ethan didn’t elaborate, his cold expression returning as he took the handkerchief she offered and began wiping his jacket himself. “Forget it,” he muttered.

Jason, ever the peacemaker, chuckled nervously. “Let’s not scare the poor girl. It was just an accident.”

Kyra bit her lip, the sting of Ethan’s earlier tone still fresh. “I’m really sorry,” she mumbled again, stepping back.

Jason waved her off with a friendly smile. “It’s fine, really. We’ll call if we need anything else.”

As Kyra left the room, her mind still reeling from the encounter, Ethan sat back down, his thoughts lingering on her. He hadn’t expected to see her again, let alone like this. The girl from the graveyard and the clumsy waitress were one and the same—and for reasons he couldn’t explain, her pain and determination still lingered in his mind.

The two men sat in the private room, their drinks in hand as the night carried on. The whiskey was smooth, the kind that warmed the chest, but Ethan barely seemed to notice. His expression was unreadable, his mood colder than the ice clinking in his glass.

Jason, ever the conversationalist, had been doing most of the talking. He leaned back in his chair, his signature grin still in place as he recounted one story after another, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

“So, there I was,” Jason said, chuckling at his own tale, “completely out of my depth, but somehow, I pulled it off. You should’ve seen the look on their faces!”

Ethan nodded slightly, barely acknowledging the punchline. His eyes were fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it absentmindedly.

Jason sighed, realizing his friend was somewhere else entirely. “You’re really bringing down the mood here, you know that?” he teased, though his tone was more cautious this time.

Ethan didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as his thoughts drifted back to the waitress—the girl from the graveyard. Her words, her tears, the raw pain in her voice, it all lingered in his mind.

Jason raised an eyebrow, studying him carefully. “Alright, clearly I’m not enough to keep you entertained. Maybe I should invite some girls over to the table. Get some company, loosen you up a bit.”

At that, Ethan’s icy gaze snapped up to meet Jason’s. His glare was sharp enough to cut steel, his tone cold and firm. “Don’t you dare.”

Jason blinked, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received.”

The room fell into an awkward silence for a moment before Jason poured himself another drink. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to crack a smile every now and then,” he muttered, more to himself than Ethan.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window. The night outside was dark and endless, much like his mood. “I didn’t come here for distractions,” he said flatly, finally breaking his silence.

Jason sighed, shaking his head but deciding not to push further. He was used to Ethan’s coldness, but tonight, there was an edge to it that felt unshakable.

They sat in the room for another hour, Jason filling the silence with his stories while Ethan occasionally nodded or offered a brief comment. But his mind remained elsewhere, the image of a grief-stricken girl by a grave refusing to leave him.

When Jason finally suggested calling it a night, Ethan didn’t object. He drained the last of his whiskey, stood up, and grabbed his jacket without a word. Jason watched him go, shaking his head. “Same old Ethan,” he muttered under his breath before finishing his own drink.

By the time I got to my apartment, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Work today had been relentless, and the encounter with that rude customer earlier only added to my exhaustion. I kicked off my shoes at the door, letting them fall wherever they wanted, and dragged myself to the kitchen.

The small space wasn’t much, but it was enough for me. I rummaged through the cabinets and pulled out a packet of noodles. Cooking something more elaborate was out of the question—I didn’t have the energy for that.

As the noodles boiled, I leaned against the counter, my mind drifting. The steam rose, filling the air with a faintly comforting aroma. I stirred the pot absentmindedly until the noodles were done, then tossed them onto a plate and grabbed a fork.

Sitting at the tiny table by the window, I ate in silence. The noodles weren’t great—just edible enough to keep me going—but they did the job. Once I was done, I got up and rinsed the plate and fork, scrubbing them clean before setting them on the drying rack.

The routine felt oddly calming, but my legs felt heavier with every step as I made my way to the bed. I flopped down, the soft mattress welcoming me like an old friend. My phone was on the nightstand, and I grabbed it, scrolling aimlessly for a few moments before pausing.

My fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I typed her name into the search bar: Margaret Lewis.

The results popped up quickly, but none of them seemed to lead to anything or anyone familiar. My chest tightened as I scrolled further, frustration building with every click. I stared at the name, willing something—anything—to appear.

But nothing did.

As my gaze lingered on the screen, memories started flooding back. I was ten years old, standing in the living room, clutching my dad’s hand as she walked out the door. Her suitcase rolled behind her, and she didn’t look back. Not once.

“Where’s Mom going?” I had asked my dad, my small voice trembling.

“She has to leave, sweetheart,” he’d replied, his tone soft but firm. “But I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And he was.

The memory made my chest ache. My fingers gripped the phone tightly before I set it aside on the nightstand, a little too harshly.

“Why do I even bother?” I muttered, staring up at the ceiling. Anger and sadness churned inside me, a familiar storm I’d carried for years.

My dad had been enough. He had been everything. And yet, part of me still wondered—still searched—for the woman who had left us behind like we meant nothing.

I turned off the lamp and pulled the blanket over my head, shutting out the world. Exhaustion finally won out, dragging me into a restless sleep filled with fragmented memories and dreams I wished I could forget.

The morning sun pierced through my thin curtains, dragging me out of a restless sleep. I groaned, pulling myself out of bed and into the small bathroom for a quick shower. My body felt drained from the previous day at work, and my mind was no better, haunted by the memories of my father and the frustrations of my life.

Dressed in my work uniform, I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed out. Breakfast wasn’t an option—I barely had the energy to care. My thoughts swirled as I walked, my feet moving automatically while my mind replayed yesterday’s events.

I barely noticed the faint hum of traffic or the cool morning breeze. My focus was elsewhere, lost in the spiraling pit of emotions I couldn’t seem to escape. That was when it happened.

The screech of tires shattered my thoughts, jolting me back to reality. I turned, wide-eyed, just as a sleek black car skidded to a stop mere inches from me. The rush of adrenaline hit like a wave, and I stumbled back, my bag slipping from my shoulder. My phone fell to the ground, the screen cracking on impact.

The car door slammed, and a man stepped out, his long strides full of tension. He looked furious—sharp features etched with anger, his piercing eyes locking on me as though I’d personally wronged him.

“Are you trying to die here?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the morning air.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, bending down to pick up my bag and broken phone. My fingers trembled slightly, the shock of the moment still sinking in.

But my apology didn’t seem to calm him. He stormed closer, his eyes narrowing. “Sorry? That’s it? You walk into the road without looking, and all you can say is sorry?”

I glanced up, and something about his face tugged at my memory, but I was too rattled to piece it together. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he cut me off, his tone cold and biting. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you were careless. Do you even think about what you’re doing, or are you too busy sulking about your miserable life?”

His words hit hard, sharper than I expected. Anger flared in me, burning away the initial fear and embarrassment. I stood up straight, glaring at him. “Excuse me? You don’t know anything about my life, so maybe you should think before you speak.”

For a moment, his scowl faltered, his eyes narrowing as if trying to place me. Recognition flickered across his face, but it only fueled his frustration. “It’s you,” he muttered, his voice dropping slightly.

“What?” I asked, frowning.

He ignored my question, his voice hardening again. “You’re the girl from the cemetery. The one crying by the grave.”

The words hit me like a punch, and I stiffened. “So what if I am? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with this,” he growled. “You’re so wrapped up in your own problems you can’t even look where you’re going. What if I hadn’t stopped in time?”

“And what if you’re just a man looking for someone to vent your anger on?” I shot back, my voice rising.

He scoffed, his sharp features tightening. “You’re unbelievable. Instead of taking responsibility, you’re standing here throwing accusations.”

“And you’re standing here acting like the world owes you something,” I snapped. “Maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so angry at someone you don’t even know.”

We glared at each other, the tension between us crackling like electricity. My chest heaved with anger, and I could see his fists clench at his sides, though he didn’t move.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he stepped back. “Watch where you’re going next time,” he said, his tone icy, before turning and heading back to his car.

I stood there, fuming, as he climbed into the sleek black vehicle and sped off without another word. My eyes drifted to my cracked phone, and I let out a frustrated sigh. This day was already off to a brilliant start. Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I turned and continued my walk to work, his sharp words still ringing in my ears.