Chapter 12
1249 Words
The appreciation dinner buzzed like a hive of relief. People leaned into each other’s
conversations, finally letting their guards down after weeks of planning and chaos. Jackets hung
loose, heels dangled off feet, ties were half-undone, and the sound of someone fake-laughing
way too loud punctuated the table across from us.
“I swear, if I see one more clipboard in my life, I'm setting it on fire,” someone joked from the left.
Layla raised her wine glass. “To sleepless nights, paper cuts, and pulling off miracles!”
“To Layla,” someone else cheered, and everyone followed.
I sat with a plate of untouched pasta, twirling the fork absentmindedly. The air was too warm,
like the restaurant was wrapped in its own drunken exhale. The table glowed under candlelight,
and shadows flickered across Layla's face as she leaned toward me.
She didn't say anything, but our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us. A
knowing glance. The kind that tasted of accountability and impending decisions.
And then I felt it.
The way the air shifted when he walked in.
Aaron.
His cologne hit me before his gaze did. Earthy, sharp, familiar. Like cedar and something else.
He was laughing at something someone said. His hand brushed another man's shoulder as he
passed, his stride loose with just enough swagger to be maddening.
Then, as if drawn by a string, his eyes found me.
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
My pulse raced.
The words from earlier echoed in my chest.
"Talk to him."
"Put it down."
"Start with the truth."
I turned away, trying to focus on the table, on Layla who was now deep in animated storytelling.
Tara was across the room, a drink in her hand and a soft smile on her lips as she talked to
someone I didn't recognize. Her laugh rang out—gentle, real—and I felt a strange warmth bloom
in my chest. She deserved this. and all the happiness in the world
I looked back at Aaron.
He hadn't stopped staring. His glass was half-empty. His eyes were full.
He was drinking, but not really talking.
Not really here.
And I knew.
It was time.........I hope.
_____________________________________________
Guests started slipping out one by one. Shoes in hands. Slurred goodbyes. Drunken hugs. The
echo of clinking plates dimmed as waiters cleared the tables.
Layla was a giggling mess, her head resting against Tara's shoulder.
“I deserve a crown,” she mumbled.
Tara looped an arm around her waist. “You deserve electrolytes.”
As they passed, Tara gave me a slow, subtle wink. A silent good luck.
Then it was just us.
Me and Aaron.
I stayed seated while he poured himself another drink from the bottle that had been left behind.
His hand was steady. Too steady.
The air stretched between us—thin, brittle. I didn't know who would speak first.
---
Lydia's voice trembled.
“I—I told you I'd find the money, didn't I?”
“Not fast enough.” Hector's tone was cold, dismissive. “The rent is due. Do you want to end up
on the street?”
He stood near the window, unbothered, swirling a glass of whiskey like a villain in some play.
“We can ask my brother again,” she tried.
“I'm not begging your family,” he snapped. “I have pride.”
“You're going to make us homeless because of your pride?” Her voice cracked.
“You'd rather live under your brother's roof and be mocked for it?” He stepped closer to her,
voice lowered. “If you love your daughters so much, ask them for help. Especially Farah, she's
the one with the big ideas now, isn't she?”
“She's already doing enough,” she whispered.
“Not enough for me.”
She begged then—eyes rimmed red, her voice so raw it scraped the walls. And he just stood
there, victorious in his emotional wreckage.
_________________________
Back at the hotel, I rose to my feet.
“Aaron,” I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
“Aaron,” I tried again, firmer this time.
Still nothing.
I moved closer, frustration curling around my voice. “Can we talk? Properly?”
He finally turned. “I still love you.”
The words landed like a slap wrapped in silk.
I blinked. “You what?”
“I never stopped,” he said simply, like it was obvious.
I couldn't speak.
He kept going. “When you left, I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I kept checking your name in my phone
like it would suddenly light up.”
I clenched my jaw. “Don't.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Don't act like I wasn't hurting,” I snapped. “When I needed you, when I was falling apart and
begging you with every look and every word to just see me—you didn't. You made me feel like I
was crazy for wanting more. For needing reassurance.”
“I—”
“You made me feel like a burden. Like something you'd already grown tired of. What else was I
supposed to do? Beg? Stay and lose what little self-worth I had left?”
He didn't speak.
Just stared.
And it broke something in me.
“I didn't want to leave,” I said, voice shaking. “But I had to. I hated it. Hated myself for it. But if I
didn't go, I would've shattered.”
The silence that followed pressed against me like a wall.
I couldn't sit in it.
I stood abruptly, my vision blurring.
“Farah—wait.”
I didn't.
I pushed through the doors of the hallway, trying to breathe.
I didn't even notice when he caught up to me. Until he grabbed my wrist.
“You didn't let me speak.”
“I don't want to hear it.”
He stepped in front of me. “You think I didn't notice? The way I hurt you? You think it didn't kill
me too?”
“I don't care how it made you feel!” I cried. “You don't get to cry about the fire you started!”
The hallway was spinning.
I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
I hated this. Hated how pathetic I felt.
Hated how much I still loved him.
I turned to run again, but he caught me.
Pulled me with him.
Before I knew it, we were at his door.
He shoved it open. Pulled me inside. Closed it with a slam.
And then he pinned me against it.
I gasped.
His hands caged me in. His eyes searched mine with a desperation I'd never seen before.
“Do you still love me?” he asked, voice low, hoarse.
I didn't answer.
“Do you want us back?”
Still nothing.
His lips brushed my neck.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
I moaned.
But I didn't speak.
I didn't trust my voice.
Didn't trust myself.
Then, like something snapped, I shoved him.
“Stop.”
His chest rose and fell sharply.
“I came here to talk. Not to answer stupid questions.”
“You think this is stupid?” he growled.
“You're drunk.”
“So?”
“So, let's talk tomorrow. I'm sure Tara's waiting for me"
I turned and opened the door.
But he slammed it shut again.
Trapped me.
My breath hitched.
And then—
- Writer
