Chapter Twenty-Two
The night didn't feel like night anymore.
It sat on her skin, heavy and restless, like it knew something she didn't. The kind of darkness that presses into your chest and refuses to let you sleep, no matter how tired you are.
She stood by the window, curtain pulled just enough to let the moonlight slip in. Her phone lay on the bed behind her, screen dark, silent in a way that felt intentional—almost cruel. She had checked it too many times already. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
She exhaled slowly and pressed her forehead against the cool glass.
"So this is how it feels," she whispered. "Waiting without answers."
Her mind kept replaying the same moments on a loop—his last words, the look in his eyes, the way he hesitated before leaving like he wanted to say something but didn't know how. At the time, she'd brushed it off. Now, it felt like a warning she'd ignored.
The soft knock on the door startled her.
"Come in," she said, straightening quickly.
The door opened, and her roommate stepped in, eyes gentle but observant. "You've been standing there for almost an hour."
"I know."
"You okay?"
She nodded out of habit, then shook her head just as quickly. "No. But I don't know how to explain it without sounding dramatic."
Her roommate smiled softly and sat on the edge of the bed. "Try me."
She hesitated, then finally turned away from the window. "I feel like something is slipping out of my hands, and I don't know if I'm supposed to fight for it or let it go."
Silence settled between them—not awkward, just thoughtful.
"Have you heard from him at all?" her roommate asked.
She shook her head. "Not since yesterday morning."
"That's not like him."
"Exactly."
The room felt smaller after that. Tighter. Like the walls were leaning in to listen.
She picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over his name. Pride told her to wait. Fear told her not to. Love—annoyingly, stubbornly—told her to try one more time.
She typed.
Hey. I don't know what's going on, but I'm worried. Please just let me know you're okay.
She stared at the message for a full minute before hitting send.
The moment it delivered, her chest tightened.
Waiting again.
Her roommate squeezed her hand. "Whatever happens, you won't break. I promise."
She wanted to believe that. She really did.
⸻
Across town, he lay awake too.
The ceiling fan spun slowly above him, creaking with each turn like it was counting seconds. His phone sat beside him, face down, buzzing every few minutes with notifications he didn't have the courage to check.
He had never been good at running. But tonight, staying felt harder.
His thoughts were a mess—fear tangled with guilt, love mixed with the kind of uncertainty that makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. He cared about her. That was never the issue. The issue was the weight he carried alone, the one he never learned how to share.
When the phone buzzed again, he finally flipped it over.
Her name.
His chest tightened in a way that hurt.
He read the message once. Then again.
Please just let me know you're okay.
He closed his eyes.
"She deserves better than silence," he muttered.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaking slightly. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
I'm okay.
Too cold.
I'm sorry I disappeared.
Too vague.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
Honesty had always scared him more than distance. But distance was hurting her—and that was something he couldn't ignore anymore.
He started again.
I'm okay physically. Mentally… I've been struggling. I didn't want to drag you into it, so I shut down. That wasn't fair to you. I'm really sorry.
He read it over, heart racing.
Then he pressed send.
⸻
Her phone lit up almost instantly.
She froze.
For half a second, she considered letting it sit—punishing him with the same silence she'd been drowning in. But relief crashed over her too fast for pride to keep up.
She opened the message.
Each word hit her slowly, settling deep in her chest. He was okay. Struggling. Sorry.
Tears welled up before she could stop them—not the dramatic kind, just quiet ones that slid down her cheeks without asking permission.
Her roommate noticed immediately. "That's him, isn't it?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
She typed back.
Thank you for telling me. I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to let me in.
She paused, then added—
We can talk whenever you're ready. I'm not going anywhere.
When she sent it, something shifted inside her. Not everything was fixed. Far from it. But the silence had cracked, and light was finally getting through.
⸻
Later that night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, exhaustion finally catching up to her. Her phone rested on her chest now, no longer a source of anxiety but comfort.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
Conversations. Difficult truths. Maybe even heartbreak.
But she knew this: love wasn't just about the good days, the easy laughs, the moments that looked perfect from the outside. It was about choosing to stay present, even when things got messy. Even when fear tried to take the wheel.
As sleep slowly pulled her under, one thought lingered—
Whatever came next, she would face it with open eyes and an open heart.
And this time, she wouldn't be silent.