Only when we shatter

Chapter 5: Unspoken pages

The weekend was busy. The boxes of my previous life arrived, and the apartment was in chaos. Open boxes lined the hallway like a cluttered timeline of a life half-lived. A toppled lamp leaned awkwardly against a pile of clothes I hadn’t folded. My bed was barely visible beneath a cascade of sweaters, scarves, and half-sorted documents. And still, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I had nearly forgotten about the book.

It was only when I was wrestling a stubborn box of books into submission that I spotted the spine of it sticking out from beneath a stack of paperwork. I stilled, staring at it like it had grown limbs and was beckoning me.

Unbroken, by Otsumiko.

The moment I picked it up, the memories returned like whispers in a quiet room.

Jackson Ivory.

His name, much like his presence, left a distinct aftertaste in my mind. Polished, magnetic, slightly mysterious. And yet… deeply human. The sound of it curled around my tongue like smoke—intoxicating, but impossible to hold on to.

My cheeks warmed as I remembered our conversation. Or rather, my spectacular display of verbal clumsiness. I had blushed so much, I was half-convinced the waiter thought I had some kind of fever. I could still hear his voice, deep and smooth, almost amused, as he caught my every awkward stumble, like he’d memorised the beats of my nervous heart.

I had every intention of calling him. But every time I thought of what to say, my mind ran dry like a pen dragged across an old napkin. Do I thank him for paying for my breakfast? For the book? For not laughing in my face when I wiped coffee foam off my nose like a toddler?

Eventually, the hours became days. Then a week. And I convinced myself the moment had passed.

That Saturday night, long after the city lights had flickered outside my bay windows and the streets below were dotted with the silver glint of passing cars, I curled up on the white leather couch and cracked open the book.

By midnight, I was hooked.

By 2 a.m., I was heartbroken.

By 4 a.m., I was clutching it to my chest, curled beneath a worn, knitted throw as dawn painted the Seattle sky in muted shades of lavender and rose gold.

It was a quiet, powerful story. A memoir of pain and resilience. Of finding beauty in fractured places. Of love—quiet, unyielding, tragic. I wondered what drew Jackson to this particular book. Was it the sadness? The raw vulnerability? Or had he seen something of himself in those pages, in the quiet loneliness of a protagonist who never quite fit the mold?

And had he wanted me to see it too?

The next afternoon was less poetic. I was buried under paperwork that seemed to multiply like rabbits. Orientation documents, credentialing forms, liability waivers—each one more tedious than the last. My brain was a fog by the time I finished, and a dull ache had bloomed behind my eyes.

Still, a flicker of gratitude sparked beneath my exhaustion. I was here. I had made it. I had left Sydney behind and all the baggage that came with it.

Or so I thought.

✧ ✧ ✧

I woke early the next morning. The city outside was hushed, the sky a pale blue smudged with streaks of cream and pink. I stood in the shower for longer than I needed to, letting the hot water scald away my nerves.

It was my first day.

I dressed simply—jeans, a turquoise sweater, white sneakers. Practical and unassuming. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to survive orientation without stuttering or spilling coffee on anyone important.

The cereal crunched under my spoon as I sat at the dining table flipping through my work folder, but my stomach churned too much to finish. I pushed the bowl aside just as my phone rang.

I hesitated before answering. The screen read Nate.

My chest tightened.

“Hello?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

There was static. Then silence. Then finally, “Bella?”

His voice was familiar. Too familiar.

“Hi, Nate.”

The conversation was stilted, loaded with everything we didn’t say. The kiss. The distance. The timing that had always been wrong.

When he apologised, the words barely made it past my lips. I wasn’t sure if I accepted it, or just didn’t want to feel anymore.

He asked if I was running from him.

Maybe I was.

But the truth was harder. I wasn’t just running from him—I was running from a version of myself I no longer wanted to be. The girl who said yes to people and no to herself. The girl who confused familiarity with love and loneliness with desire.

When I finally hung up, my hands were trembling. The cereal sat limp and bloated in the bowl, untouched. My appetite had vanished.

I looked down at the book on the dining table.

Jackson.

He had felt like a spark in a blackout. Brief, illuminating, disarming.

Was he meant to cross my path for just one morning? A flicker in a dark café, a passing kindness with emerald eyes and a too-perfect smile? Or was this the start of something more?

I didn’t have the answer. But as I grabbed my bag and headed out the door, a thought whispered through the quiet spaces in my mind.

Maybe not all strangers stay strangers.

And maybe... just maybe, that number scribbled inside a book wasn’t a question at all.

Maybe it was an invitation.