Chapter 33 — Amara: Watching Love from the Outside
(Amara's POV)
I used to tell myself I didn't need it.
That love was overrated, that relationships were messy, and that I had better things to do than worry about someone else's heart. For years, I wore that lie like armor—smiling, laughing, teasing others when they flirted but never letting anyone too close.
Because the truth?
I was scared.
Scared of not being enough.
Scared of being chosen last.
Scared that maybe, deep down, I just wasn't the kind of girl someone fell in love with.
I'm twenty-two now.
Still untouched. Still waiting.
And now, I live in a house where love blooms in front of me every single day.
Damon and Arya.
I'd never seen my brother like this before—so soft, so willing to bend, so open. He used to be cold, untouchable, buried in business and walls. But Arya changed him. Not with force. With patience. With grace.
She brought him back to himself.
And every time I see them together—whether it's the way Damon steals glances when she walks by, or how Arya's smile softens when she talks to him—I feel this knot twist tighter in my chest.
Because I want that.
God, I want that.
But I've never even come close.
Never been kissed.
Never been held.
Never been loved.
I sat in my bedroom that morning, cross-legged on the window seat, watching the sunrise paint the sky with soft gold and lavender. My journal lay open beside me, blank. I'd been meaning to write, but the words wouldn't come.
What was I supposed to say?
"Dear diary, I'm tired of being the girl everyone forgets?"
I glanced at my reflection in the windowpane. Long black hair, soft brown eyes, delicate features. I wasn't unattractive. People told me I was pretty—beautiful, even. But there was something about me that kept people at a distance. I wasn't outgoing enough. Or bold enough. Or… enough.
Maybe it was because Damon always watched over me like a hawk growing up. Maybe it was the way he scared off every guy who ever tried to ask me out in high school. Or maybe it was just me—too quiet, too shy, too unsure.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the glass.
Outside, I could hear Arya's laughter drift from the garden below. She and Damon were probably having coffee together. It had become their thing. Mornings wrapped in warmth and whispered stories. It was sweet. Intimate. Unbearably beautiful.
I hated that it made me feel so empty.
And jealous.
Not of her.
But of the way she was loved.
I wanted someone to look at me the way Damon looked at Arya.
I wanted someone to know all my weird thoughts and still stay.
I wanted someone to be gentle with me. To hold my hand and mean it.
But it's hard to long for something you've never even tasted.
Sometimes I wonder if being untouched is a curse. If the fact that I've never had sex makes me abnormal. Outdated. A relic in a world that moves too fast and loves too carelessly.
People say "You'll know when it's right."
But what if it's never right?
What if I stay like this forever?
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
I walked downstairs later that morning, just in time to see Damon press a kiss to Arya's temple. She was holding Liam in her lap, the little boy giggling as she whispered something into his ear.
My brother looked... happy.
I smiled, even as the ache deepened.
"Morning," I said softly as I entered the kitchen.
Arya looked up and gave me the kind of smile that made you feel seen. "Morning, Amara. There's still coffee."
"Thanks." I poured myself a cup and sat at the far end of the counter.
Damon glanced at me. "You okay?"
I nodded quickly. "Yeah, just... didn't sleep well."
He watched me for a second longer—he always saw more than I wanted him to—but then turned back to Arya, placing a soft hand on her waist.
I sipped the coffee and looked away.
That afternoon, I went into the city alone. I wandered into a bookstore, browsed for an hour, and ended up in a little café tucked beside an art gallery. I watched couples walk by, laughing, hands entwined, oblivious to everything but each other.
I wanted that kind of oblivion.
To be loved so fully that nothing else mattered.
And for a moment, I let myself imagine it.
Someone tall. With kind eyes. A crooked smile. Someone who didn't mind that I was quiet. Someone who didn't make me feel small for not having experience. Someone who wanted to learn me. All of me.
My mind wandered too far, and suddenly I felt ridiculous—twenty-two and dreaming like I was fifteen.
I paid for my drink and headed home.
That night, I sat on my bed in the dark, the only light coming from the moon outside my window.
I opened my journal again.
And this time, the words came:
I'm tired of watching love from a distance. I want to feel it. I want to know what it's like to be wanted. I want to be touched—not just physically, but soul-deep. I don't know when or how or even if it will happen. But I hope… I hope someone out there is thinking of me too. Wondering if I exist. Dreaming about a girl they haven't met yet.
Maybe someday.
Maybe soon.