Chapter 15
673 Words
Elena's pov:
He didn’t leave.
He just sat there.
Quiet. Still. Like he didn’t want to scare the air between them.
And somehow… that scared her more than anything else.
Because he wasn’t supposed to stay.
Men like Damiano didn’t stay. They took what they wanted and walked away before anything could touch them. Before anything could mean something.
But he was still there.
And she didn’t know what to do with that.
She didn’t know what to do with him.
---
She stayed curled up on the bed, legs tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around herself like she was still trying to keep something in.
Or maybe everything out.
She didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
It was strange, how silence could feel so loud when someone else was in the room.
But he didn’t fill it. Didn’t try to.
He just sat in that chair — the one she always chose when she needed to breathe — like it had never belonged to her.
Like maybe nothing really did.
---
Her eyes drifted to the sketchbook again.
She could still see his mother’s face.
Not her real one — just the one he’d drawn. The one he remembered.
There was something so… gentle about it.
And it hurt.
Because it meant he had that in him.
That softness. That care. That memory of love.
And if he had that…
If he had that…
Then what did it mean that he’d still done all of this?
---
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, finally. Quiet. Not angry. Just tired.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe because nothing else has ever made me feel real.”
She blinked. That wasn’t the answer she expected.
Wasn’t the one she knew how to carry.
But there was no edge to his voice. No heat. Just something flat and bruised.
Like he wasn’t trying to explain himself.
Just… letting it fall out.
---
“I still hate you sometimes,” she said.
He nodded. “I know.”
She didn’t expect what came next.
“I hate me too.”
And it landed differently. Like a stone in water. Small. Heavy. Real.
Her throat tightened.
Because for a second — just one second — he didn’t sound like the man who took her life and broke it in two.
He sounded like someone who knew what it was like to lose himself in the wreckage.
---
“I think about leaving,” she said.
“I know,” he murmured.
“You’d stop me.”
This time he didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly in the chair, hands clasped like they were holding something in.
“I don’t want to,” he said.
And then, quietly: “But I might.”
There was no threat in it. No warning.
Just a truth that didn’t know how to be anything else.
And for some reason, that hurt more than if he’d yelled it.
Because it meant he wasn’t pretending.
Not anymore.
---
She looked away, eyes stinging even though she wasn’t crying.
She didn’t cry much anymore.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
But because she was tired of giving pain a voice.
---
He stood a few minutes later, slow, like his body didn’t want to leave but his mind didn’t know how to stay.
And still… he didn’t say anything.
He reached the door.
Paused.
She felt it — that little hesitation — like he was waiting for her to say something. Anything.
But she didn’t.
And he didn’t.
And then he was gone.
And somehow, that felt heavier than it should have.
Because part of her wanted to ask him to stay.
Not out of love. Not out of need.
But out of this strange, aching thing that had started growing in the silence between them.
Something she didn’t have a name for.
Something that might’ve been hope.
Or something just as dangerous...
- Writer
