The Next Morning sky was slow , draped in sleepy clouds that hadn't yet decided whether to cry again.
Alina stood in her kitchen, holding a warm cup of tea, but her thoughts were still stuck in last night's chill. The hug. The tears. The way Evander didn't say a word, just held her like she might disappear.
It was too much.
Too sudden.
Too close.
She hadn't seen him since.
She peeked through her curtain, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of him through his window. But it remained shut, the blinds drawn like a secret.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard of her laptop. She tried writing a new chapter of her novel, but her mind was blank. No words came. Only his silence.
By afternoon, the loneliness turned into restlessness. She walked to his door, telling herself she was just going to return his umbrella.
That was it. Just the umbrella.
She knocked.
No reply.
She knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
She sighed and turned to leave—when the door opened.
Evander stood there, his hair tousled, his white shirt creased, sleeves rolled up halfway. His eyes were red—not from crying, but from not sleeping.
He looked at her as if he'd been waiting. Or maybe as if he wasn't expecting her at all.
"You left your umbrella," she said quietly, holding it out like a peace offering.
He took it without a word. But his eyes didn't leave hers.
There was a moment—one of those strange moments where the air feels heavier, charged.
Alina spoke again, her voice softer. "You didn't say anything after last night."
"I didn't know what to say," he replied, leaning against the doorframe. "I still don't."
"Then say what you feel."
He let out a slow breath. "What if what I feel shouldn't be said?"
Her heart tightened. "Then maybe it should be."
Silence.
He stepped aside. "Do you want to come in?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
The apartment was dim, quiet. The scent of old books and dark coffee lingered in the air. His place always felt like a museum of moments he never talked about.
She stood near the shelf, pretending to read the titles while he stood behind her—too close for comfort, too far for peace.
Finally, she turned to face him.
"Evander, I don't know what's going on between us. But last night—"
He cut her off.
"You could've died," he said sharply. "Those men—what if I was late?"
"But you weren't," she whispered.
"I can't protect you every time, Alina." His voice broke on her name.
"I didn't ask you to."
"No. But you make me want to."
Their eyes locked.
She took a step back, but the moment she did, her foot caught on the edge of the rug.
Alina gasped as she lost her balance, stumbling forward. Before she could catch herself, Evander's hands shot out instinctively, gripping her waist to steady her.
But the momentum was too much. She collided with him, and they both lost their footing. In an instant, they were falling together, the world spinning.
His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She could feel his breath on her neck, the warmth of his body against hers. And before either of them could react, their lips met.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't romantic. It was sheer accident—a chaotic, intense collision of emotion and fate.
Her heart raced.
His hand gripped her waist like a lifeline, holding her against him. The kiss was frantic, neither of them in control. His lips were warm, urgent, almost desperate.
When they finally pulled apart, their breaths were heavy and ragged. Neither of them spoke, but the space between them was filled with a thousand unspoken words.
Evander's hand still rested on her waist, but now it felt heavier, like a burden. His eyes flickered away from hers, guilt mixing with confusion in his gaze.
"I—" he started, but the words faltered in his throat. "I didn't mean for that to happen."
"I didn't either," Alina whispered, her voice barely audible.
But deep down, she knew it wasn't just an accident. There was something real there, something neither of them could deny. The kiss, however unplanned, had cracked open something in both of them.
Evander stepped back, his hand dropping from her waist. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharp movements. "I've to go somewhere..." he left.
She stood there, frozen. His words stung, but more than that, it was the emptiness that followed.
He was pulling away again.
Alina walked out a few minutes later, her heart pounding. Her mind was a whirlpool of confusion, trying to make sense of everything. The kiss, the anger, the moments they shared.
It wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. And yet, it did.
The next morning, the sky was a pale shade of grey.
Alina opened her door and froze.
A breakfast tray sat on the floor: black coffee, two slices of toast, and a napkin folded neatly beside it.
No note. No name.
But she knew.
It was him.
A soft smile formed on her lips. Maybe that kiss had meant something. Maybe there was still a chance.
She stepped out and knocked on his door.
No answer.
She waited. Knocked again.
Nothing.
An odd chill crept into her bones.
---
By noon, she tried again. Still no response.
She asked the landlord out of concern.
"Oh, Mr. Ross?" he said, adjusting his glasses. "He left early this morning. Said he had a flight to catch. Only took a small bag."
"A flight? Where?"
"He didn't say."
Alina's hands went cold. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Didn't even leave the keys."
Something didn't feel right. Evander never left without saying anything.
---
By evening, she called his office. His assistant sounded startled.
"Mr. Ross is… unavailable," the woman said vaguely. "He's gone out of town. Indefinitely."
"Did he say where?"
"I'm sorry, I can't share that information."
Alina hung up, her throat dry.
She sat by her window the rest of the night, waiting for a message, a knock, anything.
But the moon came and went.
And so did the silence.
---
Day Three.
Rain again.
Alina sat on her couch, numb. Her journal lay open beside her, untouched.
Suddenly, she heard a soft rustling near the door.
She stood.
Opened it.
No one.
Only an envelope—plain, cream-colored, unmarked.
Hands trembling, she opened it.
Inside was a torn page from the very book she had once lent him—The Secret Garden. A page she remembered vividly.
Scrawled in rough black ink were five chilling words:
"You weren't supposed to get involved."
Her heart dropped.
This wasn't goodbye.
It was a warning.
She clutched the page, her mind racing. Questions swirled. Was he protecting her—or hiding from her? Who was Evander Ross, really?
Outside, the thunder rolled.
And inside, Alina whispered to herself, voice barely a breath:
"Where are you, Evander?"
And why do I feel like I'm the one who's about to get lost…?