Can't get over you

Chapter 2

My eyes flutter open to the slow, hammering throb in my skull.

A deep, disorienting stillness hangs in the air.

Ugh.

Gray walls. Sleek, black furniture. Cold elegance.

Aaron’s place.

Expensive curtains. My eyes struggle to adjust. My body’s heavy, like I’ve been glued to the mattress.

I clamp both hands over my face, trying to keep the wave of emotions from swallowing me. It doesn't work.

Shame rolls through me, tightening every nerve. My heart pounds.

I remember... being cold. Then warm. A forehead kiss? No, I had to be imagining that.

The blanket was tucked around me. Gently.

I pull the blanket from my body.

I sighed.

Relief. Kind of.

Disappointment? Maybe. I hate myself for not knowing.

I wince. A dull ache pulses behind my eyes. I pause and take in the surroundings.

It takes a moment to register where I am. The light in the room is dim, filtered through thick,

expensive curtains. This isn’t my room.

Still fully dressed. My clothes from last night. No smudged lipstick. No misplaced jewelry.

Panic blooms in my chest as I shoot upright, too fast. The rush of blood to my head makes me

almost scream. I slap a hand over my mouth.

No. No, no, no.

But then—those words.

"I read every single one of your texts."

No new messages.

I grit my teeth and take a shaky breath.

My phone is on the nightstand.

The memory crashes over me like a wave. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember clearly.

No missed texts from him.

Of course he’s awake.

I reach for it.

Shit.

The air outside the room smells like coffee. Strong. Fresh. Familiar.

I glance around. My coat is draped over a chair. My boots sit by the door, placed neatly side by side.

One missed call from my sister.

The clock on the wall reads 10:07 AM.

Did he say it?

Of course.

Did I dream it? Was I that drunk?

Keyboard keys. Rapid. Methodical. Like always.

I scramble out of bed and nearly stumble. My head protests the sudden movement, but I push

through the pain. I gather my things—coat, boots, bag—trying not to make a sound.

He’s awake.

I hear him.

My stomach twists painfully.

I don’t want to see him.

I can’t face him pretending like nothing happened. Like I didn’t fall apart in front of him. Like he

didn’t whisper something that shattered me more than it soothed me.

I tighten my grip on my bag and move as quietly as I can. I pass the hallway pillar that separates

his living room from the rest of the house, making sure not to step too loud. If I can just get to

the door—

I take another step.

I turn, slowly, my stomach knotting.

The ache in my chest grows tenfold.

Aaron is standing just a few feet away. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirt half-buttoned. His

necklace—the one I gave him years ago—rests against his chest.

I stop.

No. Not today.

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Leaving already?"

Don’t look back.

"You always walk away without looking back."

"I'll compensate you later. But I need to go."

"Thanks for everything, A," I say, keeping my voice light, like it doesn't c***k beneath the words.

I swallow.

I turn again.

My spine stiffens.

His eyes lock onto mine. Searching. Unreadable.

He laughs.

It’s not funny.

It’s bitter.

"What’s funny?" I ask, my hand still on the doorknob, heart pounding.

"Listen, Farah. I am not some charity case you stumble into when your world caves in. You don't

get to block me for months, disappear like I never existed, and then roll in drunk expecting me to

clean up the mess."

I gasp, frozen.

"In one swift movement, he’s in front of me. He pins my wrists above my head against the wall.

His grip tightens just slightly.

His other hand presses into my waist.

"You left. Without a word. And now you’re here, acting like I should be grateful you let me play

hero for the night."

Instead, it hurts. God, it hurts. More than his coldness. More than the silence. More than the

distance.

His voice is low. Dangerous. Calm.

His voice cracks on the last word, barely noticeable.

He leans closer, eyes boring into mine.

"I didn’t do this for you. I did it because I couldn’t leave you on the street. That’s who I am.

Whether you remember it or not."

I should say something. Something cruel. Something strong. But nothing comes.

I just stare at him.

My heart races, but I don’t pull away.

Because he didn’t care for me the way I wanted him to.

Not enough to fight for me.

Not enough to chase me.

I adjust my coat with shaking fingers and walk to the door, not trusting myself to look back.

Then I hear it.

His phone buzzes.

He picks up.

A long pause.

"I know. I’m being careful."

"No, she didn’t ask."

"Last night was a mess. I didn’t say anything."

"She doesn’t know."

Another pause.

He’s talking about me.

What doesn’t he want me to know?

I freeze, hidden by the doorframe.

My breath catches.

I hesitate, then turn around. Just in and out. I step back inside.

It stings.

The pain swells in my chest until I can barely breathe. I blink, forcing my face to stay

unreadable.

Outside, the light is too bright.

Not the ones from the call.

But this morning, he looked at me like I was a stranger.

The one I can’t forget.

I back out slowly, closing the door as quietly as I can.

So why does it feel like I left a piece of myself behind?

Why does it feel like I’m missing something he’s never going to say?

But his words echo in my head.

He kissed my forehead. I remember the warmth.

Did I dream it?

And it won’t stop.

But the ache and that whisper—follows me.

"I read every single one of your texts."