The idea of calling him felt too daunting, too final. Instead, I decided to text him, a safer, less intimidating step. I unmuted his notifications and my thumb hesitated over the screen as I opened our chat, skipping over the numerous unread messages he’d sent. My eyes caught on the last one, simple but full of weight.
That message made my chest tighten. Despite everything, he was still waiting. Taking a deep breath, I started typing, the words coming slowly, hesitantly, as I tried to figure out what to say. How to bridge the gap between us.
Hey, Sebastian. It’s Vinnie. I was just thinking about—I deleted it.
Sebastian, I miss—Delete.
I don’t know why I’m writing this—Delete.
Nothing felt right, nothing captured the turmoil in my heart. My head knew better, reminding me that we were truly over, but my heart hadn’t caught up yet. The pull was almost addictive, a craving for the comforthis voice once brought. Sniffling, I wiped my face roughly. In a moment of weakness, I surrendered to the impulse and pressed the call button.
The line rang once.
My heart pounded, and I wondered if he would even pick up.
Was he busy? Did he see my name and hesitate?
It rang twice.
I clenched the phone tightly, anxiety building with each passing second.
What would I even say if he answered?
It rang three times.
Panic set in.
Why am I doing this? Why was I calling him after all this time?
My finger hovered over the END CALL button, debating whether to hang up and pretend this never happened.
Then, the call went to voicemail. His voice, cheerful and familiar, brought me back to reality.
“Hey, it’s Sebastian. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”
The beep echoed in the silence, and I dropped the call, the reality of my situation crashing down on me.
What was I doing?
This was stupid.
I let the phone slip from my hand, tears streaming down my face and soaking into the shirt. How could a single text leave me feeling so undone?
I sat there, the weight of my choice pressing down on me. A mistake born from a moment of weakness. This wasn’t the way forward. It was a step back. A regression into a past I needed to let go of. My breaths came in shallow gasps. I wanted to move on, to build a new life here, but my heart was still tethered to a world that no longer existed.
Breaking up had seemed like the hard part, but the aftermath was proving even tougher. The reality of moving on was far more challenging than I had anticipated. Breakups sucked. They tore at the soul, leaving scars that didn’t heal easily. I’d been avoiding my therapist, cancelling all sessions because I didn’t want to deal with this pain. Suppressing it all had seemed easier at the time, but now it was boiling over, overwhelming me with a vengeance.
After what felt like hours, I finally took a deep, steadying breath, my chest aching from the sobs. This wasn’t the end. It was a beginning—a painful, messy beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.
Chapter 8
THE SOFT RUSTLE OF WIND outside my window stirred me awake, infusing a sense of calm into the morning. My small bedroom, with its rustic wooden furniture and quilted bedspread, radiated a warm, homey feel, and sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting gentle patterns on the walls. The once unfamiliar bed now felt like a comforting embrace, and the tranquillity of Hallow’s End was slowly but surely soothing my city-tuned nerves.
At the start of the week, I’d felt overwhelmed by everything. Just arriving in Hallow’s End had been a whirlwind and, after struggling to paint, I felt sad and homesick, missing the city’s constant hum of energy. That day had left me feeling lost, and I spent the rest of the week letting myself cry and process all the emotions I’d been suppressing. It was a much-needed step forward.
I kept to myself during the week, needing the solitude to work through my thoughts. This was, after all, supposed to be a holiday. Ivy, ever kind and welcoming, texted me every few days to check in, and our conversations were light and easy, a gentle way to build the beginnings of a friendship. She didn’t push, respecting my need for space, but her presence was a comforting reminder that I wasn’t alone in this little town.
Throughout the week, I spent a lot of time painting, experimenting with new colors and strokes. It was different from my usual style, but the act itself was soothing, offering a semblance of normalcy. The paintings were strange and unfamiliar, but they represented a motion towards something new, something that felt necessary.
