My heart aches at the thought. “Calum–” I place an open palm on his arm, “you don’t have to worry–”
“I’m not,” Calum interrupts.
I narrow my eyes at his defensive tone. “Calum, I swear to you. It would degrade me to marry him. He has no drive, no motivation. He’ll slip into the abyss of history without leavinga mark,” I curl myself against Calum’s form and say the words that I know he’ll feel the most, “not like you. You have so much to say, so much to give to the world. You will leave a mark Calum Vey.”
The tension eases from his muscles then. I know all of Calum’s soft spots. His weaknesses are two singular things: me and his art.
Calum seems satisfied with that answer, his attention already shifting back to the paints. He begins unpacking them, chatting about the colors he found and how he can’t wait to get started on his next piece. I nod along, my responses automatic, but my mind is elsewhere, replaying Jonathan’s words.
I know you better than Calum ever will.
Jonathan’s words loop in my head, taunting me with its weight. Jonathan doesn’t say things like that lightly. He knows exactly how to strike where it hurts, how to peel back the layers I’ve carefully constructed. But why now? Why here, in this house that’s supposed to be our escape?
“Annabel?” Calum’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Hmm?” I blink, focusing on him.
He’s holding up a tube of paint, his smile soft and boyish. “I said, should I use this for the background? Or the deep blue?”
I force a smile, nodding toward the blue. “That one. Definitely.”
He grins, leaning in to kiss me again, and I let him, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension still coiled in my body. He doesn’t. Calum sees what he wants to see, and most days, I’m grateful for it. But today, it feels like a weight, a responsibility I’m not sure I can carry.
Hours later I’m sitting in the living room, still stewing. Calum is in his studio, lost in his art, while I sit curled on the couch, a glass of wine in my hand. The house is quiet, save forthe faint sound of the waves outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.
Jonathan hasn’t come back.
I tell myself I don’t care, that it’s better this way. But the truth is, his absence is a void I can’t ignore. He’s always been the storm to Calum’s calm, the fire to his steady flame. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need both.
The wine tastes bitter, or maybe it’s just me. I set the glass down and stand, pacing the room like a caged animal. I think about going to the studio to join Calum, but the thought of his easy smile, his unshakable devotion, feels suffocating right now.
Instead, I grab a sweater and step outside, the cool night air washing over me like a balm. The cliffs are dark, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me toward the edge, where the world feels both infinite and impossibly small.
“Annabel.”
The voice stops me in my tracks. I turn, and there he is, standing just a few feet away. Jonathan. His face is shadowed, but I can see the tension in his posture, the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, stepping closer.
I fold my arms, trying to create some kind of barrier between us. “I needed air.”
He chuckles, a low, bitter sound. “And here I thought you had everything you needed inside.”
“What do you want, Jonathan?” I snap, tired of the games.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes the distance between us, his gaze locking onto mine. “I want to know why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you chose him,” he says, his voice low and raw. “Why it’s always him.”
The question catches me off guard, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through my defenses. “Jonathan, I…”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, his jaw tightening. “Don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”
I take a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. “It’s not about choosing, Jonathan. It’s not that simple.”
