Because even as dread knots in my stomach…
…somewhere deep inside me, something broken and aching whispers:
He came back.
And I don’t know whether that means I’m about to be saved—or completely destroyed.
I don’t sleep after that.
I lie there with my phone face-down on the mattress, the glow of it still burned into the backs of my eyelids, my pulse refusing to slow no matter how still I force myself to be. Noahbreathes beside me—deep, even, practiced—and every inhale feels like a reminder that I am supposed to belong here, that this is the life I chose, that nothing is wrong if I just keep my mouth shut and my spine straight.
The locket presses into my sternum.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
I curl my fingers around it beneath the covers and squeeze until the edge bites into my skin, until sensation grounds me enough to keep from spiralling completely apart. My thoughts chase each other in frantic loops—memories spiking, fear blooming, want twisting itself into something sharp and shameful—and somewhere between midnight and dawn I realise the worst part isn’t that Kai knows I’m leaving.
It’s that he’s right.
I am packing like someone who plans to come back.
Morning arrives too cleanly.
Sunlight slides through the curtains in pale gold ribbons, touching everything with a softness that feels obscene after thenight I’ve had. Noah is already dressed when I open my eyes, cufflinks gleaming, hair perfect, the faint scent of expensive cologne filling the room like a declaration of control.
“Car’s downstairs,” he says without turning. “We’ll be late if you linger.”
I nod because nodding is easier than explaining why my stomach feels hollowed out, why my hands shake as I push myself upright, why the thought of stepping outside feels like stepping into a trap I can’t see.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognise myself.
My eyes are shadowed, pupils too dark, mouth still faintly tender in a way that makes heat curl low in my belly despite the panic clawing up my ribs. I touch my lip again, lightly, and flinch at the memory that surges up—teeth, breath, a voice telling me not to say his name.
I turn the tap on too hot.
Let the water scald my hands until sensation overwhelms thought.
By the time we leave the house, I’ve locked everything down so tightly inside myself that I feel brittle, like one wrong word could shatter me completely.
The drive to the airport is quiet.
Noah likes silence when he’s thinking, and I can feel it rolling off him in controlled waves, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but imposed. I stare out the window at familiar streets sliding past, every corner suddenly heavy with the knowledge that I don’t know when—or if—I’ll see them again.
My phone vibrates in my bag.
Once.
I don’t reach for it.
I don’t have to.
I already know.
At the terminal, the world feels unreal—too bright, too loud, too full of people moving with purpose when I feel like I’m walking through water. Noah’s hand settles at the small of my back, firm enough to guide, gentle enough to look affectionate to anyone watching.
A warning disguised as care.
