Chapter 7
1173 Words
By the time I got home, I was dragging.
The kind that comes from being “on” all day. Smiling when you want to scream. Nodding politely while your insides twist into knots.
There was a pause.
"Yeah?"
I paused halfway up the stairs. Her phone screen reflected in the kitchen light. A message had popped up, but she turned it over too fast for me to see.
Something didn’t feel right.
A buzzed kind of fatigue that seeps into your bones. Not the kind sleep fixes.
"Tara?" I called out as I toed off my shoes.
Her voice came from the kitchen, tight. Like someone caught in a lie.
I noticed the sleeve of her hoodie was pulled over her hand. Even though it was warm.
"You sure?"
"Alright. I’m crashing early. Don’t forget to eat."
She smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.
My body didn’t ache. It groaned. Everything from the soles of my feet to the base of my skull.
I walked in and found her standing by the counter, pretending to scroll through her phone. Her posture was too stiff.
The second the door clicked behind me, I dropped my bag. I leaned against the wood, shut my eyes, and let my shoulders fall. Home. At least in name.
"You okay?" I asked, peeling off my blazer.
My gut twinged. I opened my mouth to say more—but stopped. I was too tired to dig, too drained to open a door I didn’t know how to close.
She didn’t look up.
"I’m fine. Just tired."
"Yeah."
"Night, Fa."
—
I collapsed into bed, half-dressed, and let sleep take me under.
—
The next morning came too fast. The day was a blur of coffee, emails, and then straight to the fundraiser venue. Planning was in full throttle.
Inside the hall, everyone moved like a well-dressed tornado. Tables half-set. Banners halfway up. A thousand things not yet done.
"Farah! Finally." Layla rushed over, her hair in a bun, clipboard in hand. "We’re behind on the seating chart, and the stage lighting guy is being a diva. I need you."
"C’mon, lead the way," I said, already pulling my sleeves up.
Aaron stood near the center, directing two interns. His tone was cool. Professional. Annoyingly precise.
"No, that’s not where the projector goes. It needs to angle from the second beam. Otherwise, you’ll get screen warping."
"Yes, sir," one of them said, and scrambled to move the tripod.
Layla looked at me. "Can you check now? Please?"
I didn’t move. Not yet.
Aaron turned. "I sent the updated list two days ago. If the print team missed it, that’s not on me."
He looked straight at her. Then at me.
"Everything I sent was in the spreadsheet. Farah has access to it too."
My stomach tightened.
I moved to the side table where Layla was wrestling with guest badges.
"Can someone tell me why the VIP tags are missing half the names?" she snapped.
"Did you include title tags like I asked? Some of these people get weird if their PhDs aren’t printed."
But I didn't have it in me to dig deeper.
Aaron said nothing. Just turned and walked toward the staircase to the upper tech booth.
We gathered around the layout board.
We walked up the stairs in silence.
I gave her a look. "You better have snacks waiting after this."
Layla whispered, "You’ll survive."
"This is where I taped the master schedule. I’ve updated it daily."
He stopped by a bulletin board covered in printouts.
"Didn’t have to."
Layla cleared her throat loudly. "Guys? Planning now. Bickering later."
Aaron stepped closer. Too close.
"Unless you’ve been ignoring your shared drive again."
He blinked. "I didn’t say it was."
"You want to stay here till midnight?"
He stepped back. I exhaled.
"Alright," Layla began, "Farah’s got security and vendor check-ins. Aaron, you’re in charge of the digital logistics and media sponsor. I want these two working together, at least for the next two hours."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"I’m not pairing people for drama. I’m pairing them because I need things done. Unless you—"
"I’ve been working, Aaron. Not everything’s about you."
He turned. "You wanna argue or work?"
"Right. Because you’re always so... perfect."
"Aaron," I said through clenched teeth, "do you have anything to say?"
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just watched me fall apart and chose silence.
I turned away before I did something stupid like cry in front of him.
—
We got into the service elevator because the main hall was blocked off for decor.
The air calmed me for about five seconds… until it groaned and jolted, then stopped.
"Great," I said bitterly. "Stuck with you. Of course."
He finally looked at me. "This again?"
I blinked. "What?"
"I’m not talking to you," I said.
He said nothing for a moment. Then, voice low, eyes not quite meeting mine:
"You never asked."
"And not everyone can read minds!" I shot back.
"Do you know how lonely it feels to be with someone who makes you question if they even care?"
He stayed quiet.
"Note everyone shows love the same way," he muttered.
Of course he did.
"No. No, no—we’re not done here."
"I want you to stop acting like I’m the one who burned the bridge."
"They're MY feelings, Aaron!" I snapped, jabbing my finger at his chest.
"The SAME feelings I poured out to you—the ones I needed reassurance on!"
My voice shook, but I didn’t stop. "MY. FEELINGS."
I hit every word like it burned on the way out.
"And this isn’t something I think—it’s the FREAKING TRUTH!"
"Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep hoping he’ll meet me halfway when he never even takes a step?"
I bit my lip. "Because I couldn’t bear being the only one who cared enough to try."
He scoffed. "You walked away and didn’t even look back."
"Just like that. Like none of it mattered. Like I hadn't just ripped myself open in front of him."
My chest was still heaving, and my hands trembled from how much I'd let myself feel. Again.
The air between us was dense. Suffocating.
He paused. Then calmly—too calmly—he said,
"Let's finish what we came up here to do, Farah. Time's running out."
I hated how shaky my voice was.
Minutes passed. The air grew warmer. My heart beat faster—not just from the heat or the panic that clawed at my throat, but from being trapped with him. In silence. After that argument.
Suspended in a moment that could’ve meant something.
I followed him out, heart pounding in my chest like a warning.
Why does he always pull back when I need him to come closer?
Why does it feel like he’s holding something back—and why the hell does it still matter to me this much?
- Writer
