Episode Ten: After the burn
1002 Words
She left without slamming the door.
That’s what he remembered.
No final scream, no thrown wine glass, no crumbling goodbye.
Just quiet.
And silence was always the loudest kind of ending.
Damien sat on the edge of her bed for a long time after she was gone.
Hands limp between his knees.
Unshaven. Shirt wrinkled. Sleeves rolled up from hours earlier when he thought he might cook something—thought maybe he’d try doing something “normal” for her. For them.
She didn’t even notice.
Or maybe she did.
And that’s why she walked away.
He didn’t call her.
Not that night. Not the next.
Pride kept his phone face-down on the table.
But the screen still glowed at 3 a.m. with no name.
No text.
Nothing.
She was really gone.
And he didn’t know what to do with himself now that she wasn’t waiting for him in the dark.
It wasn’t love that made Damien weak.
It was possibility.
The possibility of being seen.
Understood.
Touched not just for pleasure, but for something else.
He didn’t know what that was—not really—but she made him think it might be real.
And now, that thought was gone.
He poured a drink at 6 a.m.
Neat. No ice.
Sat on the balcony and stared out at the city he used to control like a chessboard.
Every move calculated. Every piece expendable.
Ava had never been expendable.
That was the problem.
He’d made her his game.
But she wasn’t playing anymore.
The next day, work felt like a script.
The same suits. Same calls. Same boardroom strategies that once lit him up.
Now it all felt dull.
He said the right words. Signed the right papers.
But when his assistant asked if he was okay, he snapped, “I’m not here to be okay.”
She stopped asking after that.
On the third night, he found himself outside her apartment.
Didn’t knock.
Didn’t text.
Just stood across the street like a ghost who used to belong there.
The lights were off.
Or maybe she just wasn’t home.
Or maybe—and this thought landed sharp—she didn’t want him to know if she was.
He deserved that.
Still, it cut.
He went home and opened the drawer.
The one with the toys.
The blindfold. The cuffs. The silk rope she used to wrap around her own wrists before he even asked.
He touched the collar.
Ran his thumb over the metal ring in the center.
Once, she told him it made her feel safe.
Now it just felt like a lie.
He closed the drawer.
Hard.
The dreams came next.
Ava in the red room.
Ava begging him to stop.
Ava standing in front of him, eyes glassy, whispering, I don’t want to be your reflection anymore.
He always woke up drenched in sweat, fists clenched, body aching with want.
Not just for s*x.
For her.
For the version of himself that only she had touched.
And now? That version was slipping away with her.
By day five, he started writing.
Not poetry. Not confessions.
Just... thoughts.
One sentence per page.
Like therapy without the therapist.
I miss the silence when you weren’t afraid to breathe near me.
You were the only person I didn’t want to win against.
I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness when I don’t know what to apologize for.
He burned the first notebook.
Started another.
On day six, he went to her work.
Waited outside across the street.
Didn’t approach her.
Just watched.
She was laughing with someone.
A man.
Not touching. Not flirting.
But happy.
He didn’t recognize that version of her.
And maybe she didn’t either.
But it killed him all the same.
He left before she could see him.
Because he knew if she did—if she looked at him like she used to—he’d forget every promise he made to let her go.
The next night, he called.
Finally.
Her voicemail picked up.
He hung up.
Called again.
Same thing.
No answer.
Just silence.
The kind that echoed.
By the time a week had passed, Damien was hollow.
Not broken. Not sobbing.
Just… gone.
Whatever he’d built to protect himself was now a shell he couldn’t crawl out of.
She’d reached inside him.
Lit something.
Then walked away before he figured out what to call it.
Maybe that was fair.
Maybe she gave him every chance.
But the regret stayed heavy in his chest like a storm that wouldn’t c***k.
He thought about going to her door.
Begging.
Admitting he wasn’t whole.
But Damien didn’t beg.
So he wrote again.
This time a letter.
He didn’t write dear Ava.
Just started.
You once asked me what this was. If it was real. If I could feel. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know how to tell you that I never learned the language for that kind of truth.
All I ever knew was control.
Then you showed up and gave me chaos. Gentle chaos. And it wrecked me.
I want to be the man who holds your hand in daylight, who learns your Sunday morning routines and doesn’t flinch when your friends ask about our history. But I don’t know how.
All I know is I want to try.
I can’t promise softness. But I can promise honesty.
If that’s not enough, I understand. But if you ever find your way back to me, know this: I’m not waiting to tie you down. I’m waiting to see you. Really see you. And maybe, finally, let you see me too.
He folded the letter.
No signature.
She’d know.
He left it in her mailbox at midnight.
Then walked away.
No expectation.
No plan.
Just a single truth hanging between them like a match waiting to be struck.
He still wanted her.
But this time, he wanted everything.
Not just her submission.
But her heart.
And maybe—just maybe—he was ready to give her his.
- Writer
