Annelly

The raw vulnerability in his voice cracks something inside me, splintering the walls I’ve tried so hard to build. My chest tightens, and before I can stop it, a silent tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, desperate to maintain some semblance of composure as I pretend to deliberate his words. Pretend because the truth of the matter is, I miss him too. I’ve missed him every single day since he pushed me away. 

I just needed to know—really know—that his apology was genuine. That what he did hurt him as much as it hurt me. That he’s been carrying the same ache, the same suffocating regret I’ve lived with since everything fell apart. 

“Okay,” I whisper, the word fragile, barely audible as I wrap my arms around myself. 

His breath catches, and in the next moment, his hands are on me, tentative but firm, cupping my face like I’m something precious. The gentle press of his fingertips against the back of my neck sends a shiver cascading through me. When leans his forehead against mine, a soft groan escaping his lips, the world narrows until it’s just him and me. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse. His eyes squeeze shut, and he swallows hard like he’s struggling to contain his own emotions. “Thank you. For giving me this chance. I won’t let you down. I swear it.”

For a heartbeat, I let myself believe him. Let myself soak in the quiet promise of his voice, the way his presence alone wraps around me like a shield against the chaos of the world. But then he pulls away, the spell between us breaking as abruptly as it began. His hands fall to his sides, and he slips them into his pockets like he’s trying to stop himself from reaching for me again. He won’t meet my eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have…” he mutters, his tone stiff, almost resigned. He gestures toward the kitchen. “Let’s, uh… grab some water. We can sit in there and finish talking.”

I nod, brushing past him, my arms tightening around myself as I go. The sharp sting of rejection twists in my chest, as familiar as it is unwelcome. 

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Every time I let him in, let him close enough to touch me, I end up here. Disappointed. Hurt. Feeling unwanted and unworthy, with this hollow ache inside my chest reminding me exactly where I stand. 

You’d think I would know better by now. That after everything, I would have learned my lesson. He’s told me time and time again that this isn’t what he wants. That I’m not what he wants. And yet, here I am. Still hoping for something more. Still craving a man who doesn’t want me. 

As I swallow back the lump in my throat, I head straight to the fridge. The cool air that rushes out as I open the door feels grounding, a brief reprieve from the storm swirling inside me. The distance this task puts between us is a small mercy, one I cling to as I try to steel myself for the conversation ahead. But even as I go through the motions, pulling out two bottles of water, doubt creeps in. With everything I’m feeling—fear, sadness, rejection—maybe this isn’t such a good idea.  

By the time I return to the breakfast nook, he’s already seated, his posture tense but his expression carefully guarded. He’s waiting for me. 

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the bottle I hand him. I take the seat across from him, my hands trembling slightly as I unscrew the cap on mine.

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, and from the way he keeps glancing at his hands, I know he’s avoiding mine, too. I’m on the verge of asking if we can do this later when he clears his throat. 

“We’ll start simple.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit that tugs at that tender part of me that’s deeply in love with him. “Yes or no questions to begin. Should help make things easier.” 

I nod, my hands clasped tightly on the table as I fiddle with my thumbs, trying to keep the nerves at bay. His first question cuts through the quiet like a knife.

“Did you know Victor Bastille is here, in Ruby Creek?”

At the sound of his name, my breath catches in my throat as my vision blurs with unshed tears. He notices immediately, and the way his hands twitch on the table tells me he wants to reach out and comfort me. But he doesn’t. He holds himself back, and while his restraint stings, there’s a part of me that’s grateful. It’s a bitter reminder of the boundaries he’s so carefully drawn between us, but a reminder I desperately need.

“I wasn’t sure,” I admit, my voice trembling as I force myself to answer. “But I had a feeling. For some time now, it’s felt like someone is watching me. Everywhere I go.” The tears I’ve been holding back finally break free, hot and relentless, as they streak down my cheeks. Frustrated, I swipe them away with the heel of my hand. “I thought it was all in my head. I thought I was going crazy—” My voice cracks with anger and helplessness.

“You’re not crazy.” His voice is firm, cutting through the storm of doubt swirling in my head. Leaning forward, he locks his eyes on mine, forcing me to meet his unwavering gaze. “That feeling… it’s real. From now on, whenever you feel it, don’t second guess it. Get somewhere safe—preferably someplace crowded—and then call me immediately. Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say.” 

His words carry a weight I can’t ignore. “Okay. I promise.”

 “Do you know why he’s here?”

My throat feels like sandpaper, so I unscrew the water bottle in front of me and take a small sip, buying myself some time. Finally, I force the words out. “He’s here for me. I suspect to bring me back to New York, where he’ll force me to be with him.”

“Force you to be with him?” The sharp edge in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. His jaw tightens, but his gaze softens as he takes in my reluctant nod. “You ended things. I’m guessing he wasn’t happy about that.”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “He wasn’t.”

 The tension between us grows as he waits, clearly hoping I’ll elaborate. When I don’t, he exhales a heavy sigh and rubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Annelly. I know this is hard, but I need you to be honest and forthcoming with your answers. It’s important. Start from the beginning, back to when you first met. I need to know everything that happened between you two—including how it ended.”

It feels like a lead weight is pressing against my chest, stealing my breath. I take a deep inhale, trying to ease the crushing sensation, but the burn building behind my eyes only intensifies. I drop my gaze to the water bottle in my hands, gripping the cold plastic like it’s my lifeline. 

“What… what do you need to know?”

“Start with how and where you met.”

I swallow hard, feeling the sharp edge of a memory I’d rather forget. “We met backstage on opening night. He was one of our biggest sponsors, so meeting the cast and crew was one of the perks. He was…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Nice. He expressed an interest in me almost immediately and asked me out that night. At first, I declined. Between school and the production, my free time was limited. Besides, he was so… out of my league.” The bitter laugh that escapes my lips feels foreign and hollow. “I was so naïve back then,” I add softly, the guilt and shame crashing over me like a tidal wave.

“At his insistence, we exchanged numbers, agreeing to start out as friends. He was… sweet. So incredibly sweet. Romantic in a way that felt almost too good to be true. He came to so many of our performances, and whether he was in the audience or not, there were always roses waiting for me backstage at the end of the night. And on the card…” My voice softens as I glance down at my hands. “There was always a poem. A romantic verse to express how he felt about me.”

I fall silent, momentarily lost in the memory. The first time I received one of his handwritten notes, I felt… special. It had been such an overwhelming gesture of affection—one no one had ever done for me before. I was instantly smitten. 

“And then, at the end of every note, he’d ask me out. Again, and again. His persistence wore me down. He was handsome. Charismatic. Charming in a way that felt almost effortless. Everyone—my friends, the other actors, the production team—they all adored him. He felt safe.” I shake my head, frustration threading through my voice. “Even now, it confuses me. How is it that no one sees him for who he truly is? How did I not see it? How does he manage to fool everyone?”

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