“Alex?” I call out, my voice gritty, like sandpaper.
Sliding out of bed, I pull on my rumpled pants and pad barefoot across the bedroom. The ensuite is empty. No steam. No damp towels. No sign the shower was even touched.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I move faster now, shuffling into the kitchen, spinning in a slow circle. The apartment’s open layout gives me a full 360-degree view of…an empty apartment.
Fuck!
My heart rate takes off like a rocket, anxiety building in my veins like building blocks—block after block, sharp and suffocating.
I speed dial Alex. He doesn’t answer.
I scan the room, searching for a note. Nothing.
I call again. Then text. Another. And another. Still nothing.
I don’t understand.
And yet… maybe I do.
The intensity of last night—the way he touched me, the hunger, the dominance—it wasn’t just passion. It was goodbye.
Those tears he shed against my back weren’t from joy or release.
They were grief.
He was already mourning the end of us… and I hadn’t even realized it.
The only thing that could have changed it—the one gesture that might have given me his forgiveness—I never gave him.
My divorce papers.
29
ALEX
Nostalgia washesover me as I drag my feet down the hallway and step into my childhood bedroom. Decoratively, it’s changed. Posters have been replaced by framed landscapes; the once-dark walls now painted a bright sunlight hue. Hardwood floors gleam where carpet used to soften every step. It’s a guestroom now. But beneath the updates, it still harbors that unmistakable warmth of home.
My phone vibrates a couple of times, and I send the calls over to voicemail.
I drop down on the edge of the bed, mind foggy and body drained. The mattress dips beneath me like it remembers every version of who I used to be.
More buzzing. Texts now. They start rolling in one after another, sliding across the screen like a shuffled deck of cards.
“Are you going to answer those?” my sister casually inquires as she crosses the room and closes the window. She grabs a light blanket from the accent chair on her way back.
“It’s Elijah,” I say softly.
As if it could be anyone else.
“I know, honey. You need to talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”
She hands me the blanket and sinks down beside me.
“Why don’t you crawl into bed and call him?” she gently urges. “Don’t lose what you have with Elijah because of what happened with Meera. He’s not her, Alex. He’s not Meera.”
I bump my shoulder into hers, offering her a weak smile. “You know, I love you, sis.”
