Chapter 17
546 Words
Elena pov:
She woke up slowly.
Not all at once.
Just… little by little. One part of her at a time. Eyes first. Then her fingers. Her chest last.
Always her chest last.
Like it was afraid to breathe before it knew who was still in the room......
He was gone.
She knew it before she even looked.
The space felt different. The air less tight. Less… watched.
She sat up carefully, not because she was sore, but because her body didn’t quite trust the world yet. Like it needed to test the ground before standing.
Her feet touched the floor. Cold. Steady.
Her hands found the edge of the blanket and curled there, like they didn’t know what else to hold.
---
The sketchbook was still on the nightstand.
She didn’t touch it.
Couldn’t.
Because just looking at it made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t explain.
She hated that he’d left it.
Hated that it made her feel something.
Because now she couldn’t hate him the same way.
And she wanted to.
God, she wanted to.
But he’d sat in that chair like he didn’t know who he was either.
He’d told her things — quiet things. True things.
And now they were stuck in her head, looping over and over.
I don’t want to hurt you anymore.
I don’t know what this is, but I don’t want to stop.
---
She pressed her palms to her eyes.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t.
She just… didn’t know what to do with any of this.
Not the sketchbook. Not the memory of his voice. Not the quiet space he left behind like it belonged to both of them now.
---
Eventually, she stood.
She didn’t feel strong. Or rested. Or anything close to okay.
But she was tired of lying down.
So she stood.
Walked to the window. Pulled back the curtain with one finger.
The garden looked the same.
Which was annoying, honestly.
Because she didn’t feel the same.
Not even close.
She felt cracked open and soft in the wrong places. And she hated it. Hated that he did that to her.
Hated that part of her didn’t hate it at all.
---
She leaned her forehead against the glass.
Closed her eyes.
Tried to breathe.
He stayed.
She couldn’t get that out of her head.
He stayed.
Didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to fix anything. Just stayed.
And that… did something to her.
Because no one ever just stayed.
Not without wanting something.
Not without expecting her to be something.
But he didn’t ask her for anything.
Not last night.
Not when she couldn’t meet his eyes.
Not when she said she still hated him.
He just stayed.
And now her chest felt too full and too empty at the same time.
---
She whispered, to no one, “What the hell are you doing to me?”
And meant it.
And hated that she meant it.
---
She turned from the window, sat back on the bed, and stared at the sketchbook.
She didn’t open it.
Not yet.
Just stared.
And the silence wrapped around her like a question.
One she didn’t know how to answer.
One she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.....
- Writer
