That kind of silence that hums beneath the skin, that presses behind the ribs until breathing feels like a choice. I sat there for a long time, not moving, not trusting my voice enough to break the stillness he left behind.
He had gone, but his absence wasn't empty. It clung to the room, to the air, to me.
The light from the window had grown dim, the late afternoon bleeding into dusk. Shadows stretched across the floor like long fingers, and I followed them with my eyes, tracing their shapes to keep from thinking. But of course, my mind betrayed me. It kept replaying his face, that look he gave before walking out — restrained, almost controlled, yet something beneath it trembled.
He was hiding something.
And deep down, I knew it had everything to do with me.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. I hated the way my heart reacted to him, how it still fluttered even when I should have been angry. But it wasn't simple anger that sat inside me; it was a tangle of longing and fear and something I couldn't quite name.
I rose to my feet, crossing the room slowly. The air felt heavier with every step. The faint scent of his cologne still lingered — cedar, smoke, and a trace of something darker, like rain just before it breaks.
At the window, I touched the glass. It was cool, steady, nothing like the mess of heat and confusion that had taken root inside me. The city below moved as though nothing had happened. Cars crawled along the streets, people hurried through crosswalks, their lives carrying on without pause.
But mine felt paused. Held. Suspended between what I understood and what I feared to discover.
The sun slipped lower, setting the skyline ablaze in gold and red. I thought about how things had once been so different between us. When he smiled without restraint. When I didn't have to question every word he spoke or every time he turned away too soon.
I wanted that version of him again, the one who made me believe he was safe to love.
The doorbell rang.
I turned sharply, my breath catching. For a foolish heartbeat, I thought it might be him.
But when I opened the door, it was a courier, holding a small, square box.
"Miss Emily?" he asked, his tone polite, detached.
I nodded, signing the paper before he left. The moment I closed the door, a strange unease settled over me.
The box was plain white, sealed with careful precision. Inside lay a folded note and a delicate gold chain, its pendant small and familiar — too familiar. I recognized it at once. It was mine. I'd lost it weeks ago in his car.
My stomach twisted.
The note was short, his handwriting sharp and slanted, as if he'd written in haste.
> You shouldn't have waited. Rest tonight. We'll talk when it's time.
That was all.
No explanation. No warmth. Just those words — calm, deliberate, final.
I read them again and again until the ink blurred in my vision.
"When it's time," I whispered. "And when will that be?"
The chain slipped through my trembling fingers, clinking softly as it fell onto the table. I pressed the note to my chest, feeling the faint trace of his scent on the paper. That small, cruel detail made my eyes sting.
I hated him for that.
For making absence feel like a presence.
The clock ticked on. The silence thickened. And before long, I couldn't stand it anymore.
I needed to move — anywhere that wasn't this suffocating apartment filled with half-answers and the ghost of his voice.
So I left.
The night air wrapped around me the moment I stepped outside. It was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of rain. Streetlights glimmered along the boulevard, their reflections stretching across wet asphalt. The city's heartbeat pulsed around me, but it only made the loneliness louder.
My steps carried me without thought. I just walked. Through the park, past the same fountain where we'd once stood side by side, when things still felt new and untouched. I stopped there now, my reflection trembling on the water's surface.
How strange it was that one person could make the world feel both vast and small at the same time.
I sat on the bench, my hands folded tightly in my lap. I tried to focus on the sound of the water trickling nearby, but my mind wouldn't stop circling back to him — his eyes, his voice, the way he always seemed to know what I was thinking before I said a word.
But this morning, he'd looked at me like a stranger.
My throat tightened. I told myself to stop remembering, but the heart is stubborn, and mine had always been foolishly loyal.
"Emily?"
The sound of my name cut through the quiet like a thread snapping.
I turned. My heart stuttered.
He was standing a few feet away, framed in the dim glow of the park lamp. His face was half-shadowed, his expression unreadable. That dark coat he always wore hung open, moving faintly with the breeze.
My first instinct was relief — pure and unguarded — but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by confusion.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, trying to steady my voice.
He stepped closer, slow, careful, like someone approaching a frightened animal. "Neither should you."
I let out a bitter laugh. "You sent me that note, remember? You told me to wait. So I waited. And now you show up here?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze shifted to the pond, then back to me. "I had to make sure you were safe."
"Safe?" The word felt wrong on my tongue. "Safe from what, exactly? You keep saying that, but you never tell me what it means."
His jaw tightened. "Because it's not something you can just hear. It's something you have to see."
"Then show me," I said, stepping forward. "I'm done being in the dark."
The faint light caught his eyes then, and what I saw there made my pulse falter — fear. Real fear.
"Emily," he said softly, almost a whisper. "You don't understand. They know about you now."
The words landed like ice down my spine.
"Who?" I asked, my voice barely more than breath.
He didn't answer. His eyes darted past me, scanning the park. His whole body tensed, as though he was listening for something I couldn't hear.
And then, faintly, I did hear it — footsteps.
Distant, but closing fast.
"What's going on?" I whispered.
He moved closer, his hand brushing mine before catching it completely. His palm was warm, his grip firm but urgent. "We have to go," he said. "Now."
"Wait—"
But he was already pulling me toward the trees. The world tilted. My heart pounded against my ribs. Behind us, the footsteps grew louder, sharper. Someone shouted, the voice echoing across the dark park.
I stumbled, clutching his hand as we ran. Branches scratched at my arms, and the cold wind tore through my hair.
"Tell me what's happening!" I cried.
His voice came back to me, low but steady. "I will. I promise. Just not here."
A lie or truth — I couldn't tell anymore.
The ground dipped under our feet, and he caught me before I fell. His arm wrapped around my waist, holding me close for a fleeting second. I could feel his heartbeat against mine, wild and unsteady.
Something about that sound terrified me more than the footsteps behind us.
We reached the far side of the park, the darkness thicker there. He stopped suddenly, pulling me into the shadows of an old oak. His hand came up to my cheek, his touch trembling.
"Emily," he whispered, eyes glinting. "No matter what you hear next, don't believe them."
"Believe who?" I asked.
Before he could answer, a cold, commanding voice rang out from the distance —
"Emily, stop running."
I froze. The sound of my name echoed through the night like a warning.
"Who is that?" I whispered.
The man in front of me went still. His eyes darkened with something I'd never seen before — guilt.
The voice came again, closer now, clearer.
"He's not who you think he is."
I turned toward the sound, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the wind. But when I looked back…
He was gone.
Vanished into the shadows.