Falling In Love With You Again

6

James slipped into the dim Greek restaurant, settling into a booth directly behind them. Hidden beneath his dark cap and mask, he felt like a wretched, desperate stalker, but he couldn't pull himself away.

He ordered a black coffee he never intended to touch, his eyes fixed on the back of Paul’s head and the glowing face of the woman sitting across from him.

He had missed her giggling so much it felt like a physical ache in his lungs.

Listening to their quiet banter over the low background music, James felt his world crumble all over again. They spoke about wedding venues, florists, and spring dates. They were engaged. They were getting married this year.

His heart shattered into dust, yet watching her sit there so vibrantly alive—laughing, eating, breathing—ignited a dangerous, hopeless flame of hope in his chest. He had to know. He needed to find out if this was truly the woman he had loved, neglected, and driven to the edge of that cold cliff.

As they waited for their dessert, she suddenly leaned across the small wooden table, whispering something in Paul’s ear with a soft smirk. Paul shifted, turning his head slightly and raising a sharp eyebrow directly at James.

They had noticed him, the quiet stranger who had been lingering nearby and staring at them since they left the clinic.

Realizing he had been caught, James quickly tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the table, slid out of the booth, and hurried toward the exit. He didn't see the suspicious, protective frown on Paul’s face as he walked away, nor did he hear her light, bell-like laughter echoing through the small restaurant, bringing a warm smile to the waitress’s face.

James practically ran back to his hotel, driven by a blinding, suffocating agony.

He didn't stop in his room. He went straight to the hotel lounge, sitting alone in the dark corner and downing glass after glass of amber liquor.

He drank to numb the image of her sweet smile, to drown out the memory of her loving look that was no longer meant for him.

He drank until his vision blurred and his legs gave out, right up until his frantic assistant found him collapsed against the bar, gently pulling him up and dragging his ruined, heartbroken boss back up to his room.

The nightmare dragged him back into the sharp, suffocating reality of that terrible night.

In the twisted fog of his sleep, he saw her standing before him under the merciless downpour.

She was fragile, horribly thin, her matted hair clinging to her pale, sunken cheeks. It was the night she signed the divorce papers, the night he had brutally stripped away whatever little dignity she had left.

In the dream, he stood paralyzed as the painful memories replayed with horrifying clarity. He remembered coming home reeking of cheap alcohol and expensive perfume, finding her waiting up for him in the dark living room with a cold, home-cooked meal on the table.

He remembered the loud, sharp crack of his palm against her delicate cheek when she dared to ask where he had been.

He remembered the venom in his own voice as he spat at her, calling her ugly, boring, a pathetic ghost, telling her he hated looking at her face. Every cruel, malicious word he had ever thrown at her echoed through the darkness like thunder.

"Please, Cheska... no... don't go!" James sobbed into his pillow, his body violently shaking, thrashing beneath the hotel bedsheets.

In the dream, he fell to his knees in the icy mud, reaching out his trembling hands to grasp her faded hoodie. He begged her to stay. He screamed into the rain, weeping, tearing at his chest, pleading for a forgiveness that never came.

But the dream-Cheska just looked at him with hollow, empty eyes, turned her back, and walked directly into the blinding darkness of the cliff.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, baby... please forgive me..." James gasped out in a ragged, broken moan, his face completely drenched in a mixture of cold sweat and endless, painful tears as sleep refused to set him free from the hell he had created for himself.

******

Cheska POV.

That night…sleep was hard.

The chocolate ice cream hadn’t helped. Maybe it was the missing pistachio—a strange, nagging craving I couldn't quite explain, or maybe it was just the heavy, restless air hanging over Lindenhurst.

By one in the morning, I was still tossing and turning, my blankets tangled around my legs, my head pounding with a dull, persistent ache.

When sleep finally dragged me under, it took me straight back to the storm.

It was always raining in my dreams. A dark, suffocating downpour that washed away the light and left only cold, jagged stone beneath my feet.

And then came the eyes. A pair of striking, icy blue eyes staring down at me, eyes that was familiar, eyes that must have held warmth once, but now held only a terrifying void of hatred and absolute disgust.

In the dream, my heart didn't just hurt; it caved in, collapsing under a weight so crushing, so soul-deep, that it felt as though my very existence were being erased.

I didn't know who the man was. I didn't know his name or his face. All I knew was the excruciating agony radiating from my spirit—and the sharp, phantom burn echoing directly from the bullet scar over my heart.

"Please... don't go..." I wept into the dark, my real body shivering, my hands clutching the sheets. "Please... don't hate me... don't leave me..."

The pain was a physical flame, tearing through my ribs, dragging me down into a memory my broken mind refused to remember, but my body refused to forget.

I begged into the silence, sobbing for a mercy that never came, trapped in the phantom horror of a past life that had left me shattered beyond recognition.

Then, a soft, solid warmth settled against my cheek.

Gentle fingers brushed the sweat-matted hair from my forehead. A thumb stroked my cheekbone, wiping away the hot, relentless tears.

"Shh... I'm here, Elena. I've got you," Paul’s voice murmured softly into the dark.