10
1708 Words
NADIA
The look on his face guts me. Shock. Hurt. It's a kind of disbelief that makes my stomach twist.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. Regret rushes in before I can stop it, burning through every inch of me.
I want to reach out, to take it back, to erase the words hanging between us like smoke. But I don’t move. I just stand there, watching him.
His jaw tightens, and the silence stretches until it feels like it might split me open. I wish there was a way to fix this. Some magic phrases to make him see I can't help it, that I don't want this to end.
Why can’t anything ever just be easy? Why does something real and good always have to hurt first?
A car pulls up beside us, headlights washing over the curb in a blinding sweep. The doors burst open, and a small group tumbles out, laughing, singing off-key, one of them strumming a guitar like it’s some wild anthem. Their joy fills the night, loud and careless.
Instinct kicks in. I shift slightly, ready to put some space between us in case anyone recognizes me, or him, but his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist. He pulls me back, firm and unyielding, until I’m against him again, my breath catching at the nearness.
I glance up at him. His face is shadowed, unreadable, his jaw tight. The laughter from the group echoes behind us, but all I can hear is the silence between us stretching thin.
“What if someone recognizes me?” I whisper, trying to sound casual, but it comes out small.
Something flickers in his eyes, hurt, raw and sudden. He doesn’t even try to hide it. He wants me to see it, to feel every inch of what I’ve done to him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, almost a growl. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How this looks. Who’s watching. Do you even see me at all?”
I try to wriggle my fingers free, but he doesn’t let go. His grip tightens instead.
“You brought me out here to break up with me?” he asks, voice raw, disbelief bleeding through every word.
I blink, taken aback. “What? No—what are you even talking about? This isn’t—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “This isn’t even real.”
His jaw clenches, eyes darkening. I swear I see tears gathering there, the kind that hit harder because he’s fighting them back. My chest tightens.
Shut up, Nadia!
Without uttering a word, he drops my wrist like it burns and shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders rigid. The distance between us feels wider than it should.
I want to say something to tell him that this hurts me too, that I never meant for it to come to this. But the words choke in my throat.
Maybe it’s better if he hates me. If he walks away thinking I’m the villain.
Maybe contempt will make it easier to survive the wreckage of us.
Instead of heading home to Felix, I take a left onto Gibbs Avenue and drive toward my mom’s.
I need some time away from Felix from him, from everything, I needed time to think things through for what feels like the hundredth time.
It’s crazy to realize it’s been over a week since that dinner with Felix’s parents. Since that night when we finally talked… or at least tried to. For a moment, I’d thought we were okay again. That maybe we’d found our way back to each other.
But hope has a cruel sense of humour. It lifts you high enough to see the light before dropping you back into the dark.
Sometimes, I wonder if Felix ever truly loved me. Or if I was just another project in his list of good deeds, a charity case dressed up as a love story. The girl he pulled up from the bottom helped climb the fashion world and made sure everyone saw as his success story.
His personal proof that he could fix people.
Maybe that’s all I ever was to him, someone to save, and once I no longer needed saving, he stopped knowing what to do with me.
The porch light is still on when I pull into the driveway, which means Mom’s awake. She always leaves it on for me, even when she says she won’t.
I sit in the car for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, trying to summon the right version of myself to walk through that door. The strong one. The calm one. The one who doesn’t crumble every time someone says Felix’s name.
But when I finally step out, the night air feels heavier than usual, thick with the smell of rain and hibiscus from the front garden.
Mom opens the door before I even knock. “I thought that was your car,” she says, her voice soft but watchful. She takes one look at me and sighs. “What happened this time?”
I shake my head and try to smile as she leads me into the house and closes the door. “Nothing dramatic. I just needed some air.”
She folds her arms, the way she does when she’s deciding whether to push or let me breathe. “Air doesn’t usually come with an overnight bag.”
I glance down at the bag hanging from my shoulder. The one that has been sitting in my backseat for weeks “You always notice everything, don’t you?”
“Only when it’s written all over your face.”
For a second, I think I might cry. Not because of what she said, but because of how she said it, gentle, like she already knows the truth but wants me to say it first.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I admit, my voice low. “With Felix. With… us.”
Mom steps closer and cups my cheek. “Then maybe it’s time to stop doing and just be, honey. Let the silence tell you what’s left.”
Her words land heavier than she probably means them to. Because deep down, I already know what’s left… emptiness. And the terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been fighting to save something that doesn’t exist anymore.
Clinging unto memories instead of truth, to hope that keeps slipping away.
As if guided by some invisible pull, I drift toward the window and ease the curtain aside.
The cool night air seeps through the tiny gap, brushing my skin as I peer outside.
There, parked just beyond the streetlight’s soft glow, is his car.
Mystery Man.
He followed me.
My heart dips, not in fear, but in that dangerous mix of thrill and tenderness that only he can stir. I know he’s not here to spy on me; he’s here because he cares. Because even when I pretend what we have doesn’t mean anything, it still does.
Two months of stolen kisses and tangled breaths, and I don’t even know his name. How insane is that?
What kind of woman falls for a man she can’t even name?
Behind me, soft footsteps echo down the hall, Mom’s. Then her gentle hand lands on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Come,” she says in that tender tone that always disarms me. “I made you some tea. It’ll calm your nerves and help you sleep.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be right there.”
I linger for a moment, eyes still fixed on the car. His silhouette shifts faintly inside, and something tugs at my chest. I lift my hand in a small wave, forcing a faint smile to my lips.
“Goodnight, love,” I whisper into the quiet, hoping somehow, through the dark and the distance, his heart hears me.
“Come on, sis! Planning my wedding will do you some good. You obviously need the distraction!”
Laura’s voice cuts through my sleep the next morning like an unwanted alarm.
Then comes the sound of curtains swishing open, and sunlight floods the room in one rude burst.
I groan and yank the pink duvet, still carrying that faint trace of my teenage perfume over my head. “Go away!”
Laura laughs. Loud. Unapologetic. Infuriating.
“Mom thinks it’s a great idea, too.” She whips the duvet off and slips under it beside me. “Speaking of Mom, how did you tell her about your… marital woes?”
Her words hang there, sharp and too honest.
Marital woes.
God, she could’ve just said Felix, and you are a mess, and it would’ve hurt less.
She doesn’t even realize how that phrase slices.
I push up to sit, my hair a wild halo, heart hammering in irritation. “You really need to learn when to shut up.”
She just grins, smug as ever. “Says the woman who’s been sulking for days.”
That’s it. I’m done.
If I stay here another minute, someone’s leaving this room with a black eye, and it won’t be me.
I throw the duvet aside and swing my legs off the bed. “I’m going for a run,” I mutter. “Then I’ll check in with my PA, maybe grab breakfast at the diner.
Laura hums behind me. “You know, running won’t fix your marriage.”
I stop, inhale deeply, and turn to her with the calmest fake smile I can manage. “No, but it might stop me from committing a crime this morning.”
She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help the smallest twitch of a grin before I grab my hoodie and head for the door.
The hallway smells like cinnamon and old memories. Mom’s humming drifts from the kitchen, warm and distant. I slip on my running shoes, tie the laces tight, and step outside into the cold morning air.
The street is quiet, still soaked in dawn. For the first time in a while, I breathe, really breathe, and it hits me.
Maybe I can’t outrun what’s broken.
But I can damn well start moving again.
- Writer
