Chapter 13
800 Words
Elena pov:
She didn’t leave the room that morning.
Didn’t read. Didn’t pace. Just sat curled up on the bed, her knees to her chest and her thoughts running circles around themselves.
It wasn’t fear holding her in place anymore.
It was confusion.
Exhausting, bone-deep confusion.
Damiano’s words from the night before echoed through her like a song she didn’t know the lyrics to — soft, low, unfinished.
“I was afraid you’d break.”
“And I wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together.”
She didn’t know why that had gotten under her skin.
Maybe it was the way he’d said it. Not like a warning. Not like a threat.
Just… honest.
And honesty from him felt more dangerous than chains.
The light through the window moved slowly across the floor, stretching long and thin like time was dragging on purpose. The room felt too quiet. Too still.
Then — a knock.
Soft.
Just once.
Her heart kicked up, stupid and instinctual.
She didn’t answer.
“Elena?”
His voice.
Low. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say her name.
She stayed still.
The door creaked open anyway.
Not in that commanding way he used to enter rooms like he owned them.
This time, it was gentler. Almost hesitant.
He stepped inside, something in his hands. A book. Worn, leather-bound. Familiar.
Her chest pinched.
“The sketchbook,” he said quietly. “You left it.”
He didn’t come any closer at first. Just looked at her like he was waiting for permission. When she didn’t say anything, he crossed the room and placed the book on her nightstand like it was something sacred.
She glanced at it. Then at him.
He wasn’t wearing a suit. No tie. No jacket. Just a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, collar open. His hair was still a little messy like he hadn’t slept, either.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
He didn’t flinch. “I didn’t bring food.”
“Then why are you here?”
A pause.
He sat in the chair across the room — the velvet one with the worn armrest where she sometimes curled up with a blanket when sleep refused to come.
“To see you,” he said simply.
Her throat tightened.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
Elena stared at him. He wasn’t looking at her like she was a prisoner. Or something broken.
He was just… looking.
She hated how that look softened something in her chest.
She looked down at the sketchbook. Ran her fingers along the frayed edge.
“I thought about throwing it away,” she muttered.
“You didn’t.”
“Why did you show it to me?”
He exhaled slowly. “Because I didn’t know how else to say it.”
“Say what?”
“That I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
Her stomach twisted.
Because it sounded too much like the truth.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispered.
“I don’t expect you to do anything.”
Another pause stretched between them.
Not heavy. Just full.
Elena opened the book, flipping past pages she’d already seen — delicate sketches, soft lines, the kind of drawings that came from someone who loved what he saw.
One stopped her.
A woman’s face. Smiling. Gentle eyes. Drawn in charcoal with so much care it felt like a memory, not a picture.
“Your mother?”
He nodded once.
“You drew her?”
“When I was fifteen.”
She looked back down.
The sketch was imperfect, a little rushed in places. But it was real. And full of love.
“I didn’t think you could love anyone,” she said before she could stop herself.
“I didn’t think I could either,” he answered.
And that, somehow, was worse.
She closed the book slowly, holding it in her lap.
“I’m still angry,” she said.
“I know.”
“And I don’t trust you.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
Her eyes burned suddenly — with what, she didn’t know.
Anger. Exhaustion. Grief for a life that didn’t exist anymore.
But somewhere underneath it all, quieter and more dangerous…
She didn’t feel afraid of him.
Not in this moment.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “What you’re doing.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“I don’t either,” he said. “But I don’t want to stop.”
And he didn’t move closer.
Didn’t try to touch her.
Didn’t try to explain it away or fix anything.
He just sat there.
And for the first time, she didn’t want him to leave.
Not yet....
- Writer
