I didn’t look back after I walked away.

Not because I didn’t want to.

Because I knew I would.

Every step I took felt heavier than the last, like his words had hooked into my spine and were dragging behind me.

“Then let me carry it.”

He didn’t say what “it” was.

But I knew.

The weight of loneliness. The exhaustion of pretending I’m not tired of being strong all the time. The ache of wanting someone I should’ve run from the moment he looked at me like I wasn’t built to survive him.

I made it home. Locked the door behind me like it would keep him out of my head.

It didn’t.

Damien Vale was a storm I’d tried to stay ahead of, but now he was in the air I breathed.

I sat on the floor by my bed, legs folded beneath me, and stared at the carpet until the silence started to buzz.

I hated this part.

The after.

The quiet where all the feelings I’d swallowed came clawing back up my throat.

Why did he look at me like that?

Why did it make something inside me soften instead of shatter?

I wasn’t naïve. I knew obsession when I saw it. But with Damien, it didn’t come wrapped in red flags. It came in quiet moments. In the way he didn’t touch me when he could have. In the way he watched like he was memorizing pain.

And the worst part?

I felt seen.

Not just wanted. Not just chased.

Seen.

I pulled out my journal and opened it to a blank page. I hadn’t written in weeks.

“Today, he looked at me like I was a puzzle he already solved.

But I think I’m more dangerous unsolved.”

I stared at the words, then shut the notebook.

I didn’t cry.

But I wanted to.

Instead, I curled into the silence—and wondered what part of me he’d take next.

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