Page 62 of The Ruin I Chose

I stared at her photo on the caller ID. Still glowing. Still haunting.

Three months.

Three months of silence. Three months of self-inflicted torture—resisting the urge to call her. And then today, out of the blue, she called. That too at this hour. Was she in trouble?

I paced the office, rubbing my forehead, imagining every worst-case scenario. Even an accidental call felt like a warning. My hands wouldn’t stay still; the tremor betrayed how close I was to losing control.

I poured myself a drink and swallowed hard, letting the whiskey burn all the way to my stomach. Then another. And another. Anything to drown the scream rising in my throat.

The air thickened—with concern, with memory, with her. An hour passed. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I picked up my phone and dialled.

She answered. Didn’t speak. But the music behind her did. Bass. Laughter. Glasses clinking.

Then—her voice.

“I’m tired.”

“None like you, though… couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

A pulse detonated behind my ribs. It was an unknown voice.

Was she being hit on?

I tightened my grip on the glass. I didn’t realise how tight I was gripping it until it began to crack in my hand. My palm stung—skin split just enough to bleed. I felt an unwanted wave of jealousy wash over me—feral and humiliating. I wanted to reach through the phone and rip the voice from her world.

I hated that I still wanted her. I hated that I couldn’t stop. Even when she was far away, even when I pushed her away, memories of her came back to me in flashes.

Her smile, the glint in her eye, her worry, her tears. Her face haunted me in silence. That’s why I never let silence settle. By nightfall, the alcohol would sedate me into sleep.

“Roxy… girl, you’re in love.”

A familiar voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Ritu, I think.

“Maybe. I can’t get him off my mind…”

My breath caught. My whole body went still, like a deer caught in headlights.

Was she confessing her feelings towards me? Was she in love with me?

Her voice was slurred—but honest. She was drunk. But she was speaking the truth.

“He gives me butterflies… We were probably like shooting stars—brilliant, fleeting, never meant to stay…”

I listened in silence. Every word she slurred felt like a confession she never meant me to hear. Her words hit like bullets. Breath shallow. Heart wrecked.

I wanted to believe she meant me. I needed to believe it. I closed my eyes, absorbing every word landing like gospel. Unchallenged. Sacred, consuming me whole.

“Maybe the universe left us unfinished…”

No. No. No, Roxy. It wasn’t the universe. It was me. I had to keep you away. To push you away. I ran a hand through my hair, closed my eyes, and leaned back against the couch.

“To forgetting the unforgettable…”

The call ended. But the ache didn’t.

Three months. Three months of silence, of rage, of restraint.

For three months, I hadn’t entered the room we stayed in. I had instructed the staff to leave it as it was, just clear the untouched food.