Page 65 of The Ache That Stayed

“Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

I furrowed my brows. “Like how?”

“Like there is a storm waiting to be unleashed but he’s kept it restrained.”

I shook my head. “You’re trying to dissect something that isn’t there.”

“I’m just trying to caution you as a friend.”

We spoke some more about mundane things and life before slipping into our rooms. I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, replaying the events of the evening.

What if what Ritu said was right?

Nope. She’s definitely reading too much into this whole situation.

My phone pinged.

This was tangible. Safe. Familiar.

And still—it felt hollow. Like a script I knew by heart but couldn’t believe tonight. This is what I understood.

Santino and I, I never understood. We had a firecracker dynamic. Somehow being around him made me feel free, liberated. I didn’t have to put on a facade of being the perfect person, pretending to have it all in control.

It was like his darkness recognised mine, and instead of moulding it into something more palatable, he let it exist. He didn’t hold it—he stroked it, rekindling the fire still living in the dying embers of my soul.

There was always heat. Every time we locked eyes, he looked away first, like watching me too long would set him ablaze.

Maybe Ritu was correct. Maybe I chose to ignore the signs. I tossed and turned, then picked up my phone and typed out a message.

I deleted it.

I deleted it.

Before I could think, I hit the send button.

And waited.

An hour passed. I checked the phone. And another.

It was almost 2 a.m. I called him, and it went straight to voicemail. The same cold voice.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I hated that message. Hated that voice. Hated what it did to me. Still, I tried again. The silence ticked inside my head, each second louder than the last, scraping against my nerves, until it was all I could hear.

Somewhere between worrying for him and thinking about my fucked-up feelings, I drifted to sleep.

Morning came too quickly. Every call went straight to voicemail, every message unanswered.

Panic had settled to something colder. Familiar.

I knew this feeling. He’d done this before.

It dragged me back—two years ago.