He asked to take me away. But all I could hear was my mother’s voice in my head, warning me there is no way we could ever last.
I toss and turn beneath the thin blanket, skin flushed one moment, chilled the next. Sleep won’t come. Not with his beautiful face in my mind—that intense cobalt gaze, that low, coaxing voice. The way his hand traces the length of my spine like he knows exactly where I’m fraying. The way he always finds me, even when I don’t want to be found.
But what happens when he uncovers the parts I’ve kept buried? When he sees I don’t know how to exist without something to prove? That love, for me, has always meant doing too much and hoping it would be enough.
He’ll come for me in the morning. I know he will. He’ll knock until I open the door. Call until I answer.
And if I see him—if I see that look in his eyes—I might fold. I might fall back into him and forget why I came here in the first place.
Around five, the first hint of morning slips in, pale and muted. Knowing sleep is hopeless, I get up and get dressed slowly. Jeans. A sweater. Nothing that smells like him. I pack my bag carefully, with unsteady hands.
When I reach for my necklace to slip it beneath my shirt, the diamond catches a thread of early light. I press my thumb to it. The gold is cool against my skin.
I haven’t taken it off since the night he fastened it around my neck. I don’t now, either.
But I press my hand flat over it, as if I can muffle the part of me that’s still reaching for him.
It’sa quarter past nine when the train begins to slow.
The carriage sways beneath me, the landscape outside the window blurring into frost-laced fields and bare trees. We’re close now, just outside Fitchburg.
I turn my phone back on.
It vibrates almost immediately—sharp and insistent.
Incoming Call—Nathaniel Caldwell
The screen pulses. Once. Twice.
His name pulls at me like a tide—quiet, steady,inevitable. I should ignore it.
But my fingers move of their own accord, my thumb swiping across the screen. The call connects. And then I hear his voice—low, controlled, threaded with something frayed at the edges.
“Where are you, Olivia?”
I curl my fingers tighter around the edge of my seat, the leather strap of my bag caught beneath my palm.
“On the train,” I say softly. “Almost in Fitchburg.”
There’s a pause—long enough to amplify that ache in my chest.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” I add. It feels like the truth, even if it isn’t completely.
The silence that follows isn’t cold, but it settles in the space between us like a held breath.
“I’m not running away from you,” I offer, trying to keep my voice even.
A beat. Then, “Aren’t you?”
The words don’t carry accusation, but they still land heavily. I press my shoulder against the cold glass of the window and close my eyes. He’s not wrong. But it isn’t that simple.
I shift slightly, tucking one knee beneath me. My coat bunches at the elbow, and I smooth it down out of habit.
“You promised that you’d let me move at my own pace,” I remind him, almost in a whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. I think I hear him exhale, but it’s soft—like he’s turned away from the receiver.
“I remember,” he says finally, but it sounds strained.
