I know he stopped loving her a long time ago, but he's never explained why, apart from the cheating. I know deep down there's something else.
“Are you bringing that up again? It was years ago; you need to get over it.”
A loud slam on the desk makes me flinch, hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp.
“You're such a heartless bitch,” he bites out, voice breaking with raw, gut-wrenching pain
“Excuse me?”
“Get over it? Fuck sake, Rose, you got rid of our daughter! Our perfectly healthy daughter. All because of your opinion on girls and because you didn't want it to ruin your body.”
I freeze, heart sinking.
She… she what?
I never even knew she was ever pregnant. River never mentioned it.
It all makes sense now. His hatred for her—the way he can’t even look at her without feeling disgust and pain. The time he told me he didn’t really understand how I felt after losing my dad, and how the cheating didn’t seem to affect him at all.
The picture at his parents’ house comes to mind—the way I felt a mix of grief and happiness while looking at the image of the beach. The beautiful tattoos snaking down his arm each tell a story, marking the life he's lived, the people he's lost, and the battles he's survived.
She got rid of their daughter behind his back.
Who the fuck does that?
Anger and hurt churn low in my stomach, twisting viciously as the air in the room grows dense and suffocating.
“I won't let you hurt Willow anymore. She deserves the chance to heal. To be happy, and having you anywhere near her will only drag her backwards.”
There's a pause.
“I don't want to see you again. And if you do see me, don't you dare come over. Don't speak to me. Don't even look at me,” his voice cracks with fury and something far more painful underneath. “You're dead to me, Rose. Now get the fuck out.”
I've never seen him like this—so shattered and full of rage. All I want is to wrap him in my arms, to reassure him that he’s not alone and that it’s perfectly okay to let it all out. The echo of her heels fades away, leaving behind a weighty silence. I stay still, not wanting her to spot me through the window.
I stay where I am for a few seconds longer, my pulse racing.
When I finally crawl out from under the desk and stand, he's just standing there, staring at the wall like he's trying to holdhimself together. His back is rigid, his shoulders rise and fall too quickly, each breath shallow and uneven.
“Elijah.”
He doesn't answer.
I take a step toward him and then another. The room feels too quiet, too small; the air around us is fragile. I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and our breathing. When I reach him, I finally see his face clearly. His eyes are glossy, bright with tears, and he is fighting with everything he has not to let them fall. His jaw is clenched so tightly that I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He looks wrecked, and I ache for him.
It’s painful to realise that something so delicate and heartbreaking slipped out, and I happened to hear it when he probably didn’t want me to. She did this to him. She has hurt him so much, and I hate her even more for it.
I don't ask him anything.
I just reach for his hand.
My fingers slide into his, and for a second, he doesn't react. Then, slowly, he looks at me. That's when it happens. One tear slips free, carving a silent path down his cheek.
That's all it takes for me to comfort him.
I step into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He folds instantly, burying his face into the crook of my neck, and I feel the full weight of him as his body shudders against mine. A quiet, trembling grief that shakes through him in waves. I press my cheek to the top of his head, closing my eyes, running my hand through his hair, holding him there. His breath is warm against my skin, uneven, breaking every few seconds.
My own tears burn behind my eyes, but I don't let them fall. This isn't about me. This is about him.
