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Chapter Twenty-One: The Weight of Truth
The rain started again just before midnight.
Not the dramatic, thunder-splitting kind—just a soft, stubborn drizzle that clung to everything it touched. The kind that made the world feel quieter, heavier. Like it was holding its breath.
She stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching the streetlights blur through the glass. Her phone lay face-down on the bed behind her. Silent. Still.
She hadn't heard from him since earlier that evening.
And it shouldn't have bothered her this much. She told herself that at least five times. But every time she tried to breathe past the ache in her chest, it tightened again, sharper than before.
Because silence had a way of speaking.
She turned away from the window and sat on the edge of the bed, finally reaching for her phone. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the same old notifications that suddenly felt irrelevant.
She exhaled slowly.
"Get a grip," she whispered to herself.
But her heart didn't listen.
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Across town, he sat alone in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. The engine was off. The street was empty. The rain tapped softly against the windshield, matching the restless rhythm in his chest.
He had typed the message at least ten times.
Deleted it every single time.
Because how do you explain the kind of truth that could change everything?
His phone buzzed in his hand—not from her, but the reminder he'd been dreading all day. The past had a way of demanding attention when you least wanted to give it.
He closed his eyes.
He was tired of running.
Tired of pretending that some things didn't still hurt. Tired of acting like secrets didn't rot from the inside out.
If he cared about her—really cared—then she deserved the truth.
Even if it cost him everything.
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She was halfway to sleep when her phone finally lit up.
Her heart jumped so hard it almost hurt.
Him.
She sat up instantly, staring at the screen like it might disappear if she blinked.
Can we talk? Properly. Tonight.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Is something wrong?
The reply came almost immediately.
I don't know how to say this without messing it up. But I can't keep avoiding it.
Her stomach dropped.
You're scaring me.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I'm coming over. If that's okay.
She hesitated only for a second before typing:
Okay.
The moment she sent it, the room felt too quiet.
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He arrived twenty minutes later.
She heard his knock before she heard her own heartbeat again. When she opened the door, the sight of him—wet hair, tense jaw, eyes darker than usual—hit her harder than she expected.
Neither of them spoke at first.
He stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him. The space between them felt unfamiliar now, stretched thin with unspoken words.
"You look like you haven't slept," she said softly.
He gave a tired half-smile. "Neither have you."
That was enough to break something.
She folded her arms. "So… talk."
He inhaled deeply, like he was bracing himself.
"There's something about me you don't know," he began. "Something I should've told you earlier."
Her chest tightened. "Okay."
He paced once, then stopped. "I didn't expect to care about you this much. That's the problem."
She frowned. "How is that a problem?"
"Because when I care, I lie by omission," he said quietly. "And I promised myself I wouldn't do that again."
Again.
That word lingered.
"Again?" she repeated.
He nodded. "I've been here before. I hurt someone—badly—because I wasn't honest about where I was mentally. I thought I was ready for something real. I wasn't."
Her breath caught. "Are you saying—"
"I'm saying I still carry that guilt," he cut in. "And when things between us started getting serious, I panicked. I didn't want to ruin you the way I ruined her."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
"So what," she said, trying to steady her voice, "you were just… waiting for the right moment to disappear?"
"No," he said immediately. "I was trying to figure out how to stay without destroying us."
Silence stretched between them.
Then she laughed softly—once. Bitter. "Do you know how unfair that is?"
"I know."
"You don't get to decide what breaks me," she said, eyes shining. "You don't get to protect me by shutting me out."
He swallowed. "I know. That's why I'm here. I'm done hiding."
She wiped at her eyes, frustrated with the tears she refused to let fall. "So what happens now?"
He met her gaze fully. No running. No walls.
"Now you decide," he said. "I'm giving you the truth, even if it means you walk away."
Her heart pounded.
Because walking away would be easier.
But loving him had never been about easy.
She stepped closer, close enough to see the fear behind his calm. "You don't get points for finally being honest," she said quietly.
"I'm not asking for points," he replied. "I'm asking for a chance."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then she said, "Next time you're scared, you talk to me. Not the version of me you imagine will break—but the real me."
His breath shuddered. "I can do that."
"You better," she said. "Because I'm not doing halfway. Not with you."
A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. "You're still here."
"I am," she said. "But don't make me regret it."
He stepped forward, carefully, like the moment was fragile. When he wrapped his arms around her, she let herself sink into him, the tension finally loosening.
Outside, the rain softened.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt like running.