Grey just gives me one last searching look before they all step out, closing the door quietly behind them.
The silence that follows is deafening, but it’s what I need right now. Hugging myself, I scan the room, and my gaze lands on the fern that got knocked over when the intruder broke in and attacked me.
We still don’t know who he was.
He’s still out there.
I step to the door and lock it, letting out a long, shaky breath, feeling oddly bereft.
Everything is fine, Amelia. You’re safe.
Nobody is watching. Nobody is going to hurt you.
Walking over to the bathroom, I shed my travel-worn clothes and glasses, take out my messy bun, and step into the shower. The hot water envelopes me, washing away the grime and stress of the journey.
Why do the familiar walls of my flat suddenly feel so suffocating?
The water cascades down my back, and I try to make sense of the chaos in my mind—to understand why I treated the guys the way I just did.
Everything was fine before I returned to the scene of so many crimes.
They apologized.
I forgave them.
Finishing my shower, I step out, feeling a little cleaner but no less conflicted. Wrapping a towel around me, I walk to the frontdoor and double-check the lock, making sure it’s secure. I even put a chair in front of it, a small act of control that gives me a fleeting sense of security. It’s silly, maybe, but I need to feel like I have power over something right now.
Even though it’s daylight, I turn on all the lights in my apartment manually because Jamie is still gone, along with my laptop. A pang sears through my chest at the thought.
I miss him, but I don’t know if I could ever have him back.
They ruined him for me.
The brightness is comforting, pushing back the shadows that threaten to overwhelm me.
I dry off and pull on some comfortable pajamas. The bed looks inviting, and I practically collapse onto it, pulling the covers around me like a protective cocoon as I stare up at the ceiling.
My heart is still bruised, and my mind is a maze of fears and doubts. I trace patterns on the ceiling with my eyes, trying to untangle the knot of emotions in my chest.
It’s not that I don’t trust them at all, but that trust is fragile.
I know they don’t want to hurt me. Intellectually, I understand that. But it’s hard to shake the memories of being watched and manipulated.
The violation of my privacy.
The sense of control they had over every aspect of my life.
It’s like a movie playing on repeat in my head, and I can’t seem to hit the stop button.
It’s a battle between my heart, which wants to trust, and my mind, which screams at me to be cautious.
Why was it easier in London?
Maybe because it felt like a break from reality, a bubble where I could pretend the past didn’t exist.
Closing my eyes, I will myself to relax.
I should probably put some tape or something over the cameras.
