20. Lucy
CHAPTER 20
Lucy
T his morning I gather the reports Jarvin requested, smoothing out the edges as I head towards his office. There's a slight flutter of nervousness mixed with excitement in my chest. Maybe we'll have a moment to share something more than just work. The thought brings a small smile to my lips as I finally can admit that I feel something for him.
As I approach his office, I hear laughter spilling out from inside, light and carefree. Curious, I peek through the slightly ajar door and see Jarvin talking to another woman. She's laughing, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and he seems relaxed, his usual confident demeanor softened by amusement.
Although his expression is hard to read, my heart sinks at the sight, a pang of jealousy twisting my insides. I bite my lip, fighting the urge to turn away, but I can't tear my eyes from the scene.
She turns to him, her curvy body leaning close, saying something I can't quite make out. I watch him sigh, shaking his head. Is that endearment? Part of me wants to interrupt and catch him. The ‘I told you so’ hovers in my grasp. But the other part of me, the part that knew better, is crushed.
Memories flood back, unwelcome and sharp. Similar moments with other women, the just friends cover ups. The pang of jealousy and insecurity twists in my gut, making it hard to breathe.
I step back, clutching the reports tightly against my chest. My mind races with doubts, questioning everything. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Maybe it's just a friendly conversation, I reason. But the sight of them together feels too familiar, too close to the hurt I'I thought I could finally leave behind.
I quickly retreat, my heart pounding in my chest. The reports crinkle under my grip, my hands trembling as I struggle to process the wave of emotions crashing over me. Shock, anger, and that all-too-familiar hurt again swirl together, making it hard to breathe.
My ex's face flashes before my eyes, the way he used to laugh and flirt with other women, always brushing off my concerns. His dismissive smirk and casual shrugs felt like knives twisting in my heart, each one deeper than the last. The betrayal cuts deep, reopening wounds I thought had started to heal. It’s as if no time has passed, and I'm right back to that painful place, where trust was just a fragile illusion.
I lean against the cool wall of the hallway, clutching the reports tightly. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. This isn't like before, I tell myself, but the doubt creeps in, whispering insidious thoughts. Why would Jarvin be interested in me when he can have moments like that with someone else?
Every kind word and shared smile with Jarvin feels tainted now, overshadowed by the fear that he's not different. I try to steady my breathing, but it's no use. The hurt feels too raw, too real.
Anger bubbles up alongside the hurt. How could he? After everything we’ve shared. The lunches, the conversations—were they all just a game to him? The thought makes me clench my fists tighter around the reports until my knuckles turn white.
But underneath the anger lies that deep-seated fear of being hurt again. The fear that letting someone in will only lead to more pain and betrayal. I thought Jarvin was different. I wanted him to be different. I trusted him, I could feel my walls coming down.
I take a shaky breath and force myself to stand up straight. This isn't the place to fall apart. I have work to do, responsibilities to uphold. I can't let this—whatever it is—get in the way.
But as I walk back to my desk, each step feels heavier than the last. The doubts linger, and despite my best efforts to focus on work, my mind keeps drifting back to that image of her hand on his arm.
I sit down at my desk and place the reports carefully on top of a neat stack of papers. My hands are still trembling slightly as I try to refocus on the tasks at hand. But no matter how hard I try, the questions won't go away: What does this mean for us? And can I really trust him?
I decide to pull back from Jarvin. What I walked into earlier was just too much, a harsh reminder of past betrayals I'd rather not go through again.
I begin to avoid him at work, finding excuses to steer clear of his office and our usual lunch meetings. My desk becomes my sanctuary, a place where I can bury myself in work and keep my distance.
I just can't face him after what I saw. My face burns at the memory replaying in my mind. I can't get the image out. I feel so stupid and should have stuck to my guns. I told him things would get complicated, and this is exactly what I meant.
When he sends messages, I hesitate before replying. Each response is brief, curt, devoid of the warmth we once shared. It feels wrong, but I can't help it. The need to protect myself is too strong.
His concern comes through in his texts— “Everything okay?” “Missed you at lunch today”—but I ignore the twinge in my heart and reply with neutral statements about being busy or having other commitments.
The first time I skipped our lunch, it felt like a betrayal of something special we had started to build. But the image of him with that woman keeps replaying in my mind, and I remind myself why I'm doing this. Better to pull away now than get hurt later.
In meetings, I avoid his gaze, and when our eyes do meet by accident, I quickly look away, pretending to be engrossed in my notes or the presentation slides. The tension between us is palpable, but I force myself to stay composed.
I hate pulling away so abruptly, especially when he continues to reach out with small gestures—a coffee left on my desk, a friendly smile in passing—but the fear of getting hurt again overshadows everything else. Each kind act feels like a trap, a way to lure me into vulnerability only to break me later.
One afternoon, as I'm leaving the office late, Jarvin catches up with me near the elevators. "Lucy," he calls out, his voice tinged with concern.
I stiffen but force a polite smile as I turn to face him. "Yes, Mr. Thraknar?"
"Is everything okay? You seem... distant lately."
I nod quickly, avoiding his eyes. "Just busy," I say, trying to keep my tone light and casual.
He frowns slightly but doesn't press further. "Alright," he says quietly. "If you need anything..."
I nod again and step into the elevator as soon as it arrives, grateful for the escape. As the doors close behind me, I let out a shaky breath.
At my desk the next day, I focus intently on my tasks, keeping my interactions with him strictly professional and minimal. The space between us grows wider each day, but it's what I need right now– distance between me and the pain.
Each message from him now feels like a test of my resolve. "Missed you at lunch again," reads one text. Another says simply, "Hope you're doing okay." My replies remain short: "Busy day," or "All good here."
The guilt is an incessant ache that won't let up. Every time I glance at my phone and see a missed message, it feels like a punch to the gut. I miss our conversations—the easy banter, the way he listened intently, making me feel seen and valued. But the image of him is tainted and refuses to leave my mind.
I should say something to him, but what? I barely let him in to begin with, and as soon as I did, look what happened.
I sit at my desk, staring blankly at the screen, trying to push the thoughts away. My work is piling up, but my mind keeps drifting back to him. What if I'm making a mistake? What if it wasn’t what it looked like?
I scoff to myself, thinking it is always what it looks like.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I consider sending him a message. Just a simple text to check in, maybe suggest meeting for lunch again. But then the memory flashes—her laughter, her hand on his arm—and my resolve crumbles. The fear of being hurt again looms too large.
I let out a sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. The office hums with activity around me, but I feel isolated in my turmoil. The connection we were building felt so real, so promising. Yet here I am, pulling back out of fear.
A part of me knows I'm being unfair to him—to us—but the scars from my past run deep. The things my ex did have left me wary, and seeing Jarvin in a similar light triggered all those old insecurities. It doesn't matter that logically I know it could have been an innocent conversation; emotionally, it's a different story.
I glance at his office door, wondering what he's doing right now. Is he thinking about me too? Does he miss our lunches and conversations? The uncertainty gnaws at me, adding another layer of guilt.
I miss him more than I'd like to admit. His presence brought a lightness to my days that I hadn't felt in a long time. But every time I think about approaching him again, that image reappears—vivid, painful, and impossible to ignore. It's like a thorn lodged in my heart, twisting deeper every time I remember.
Am I letting my past control my present? Probably. But breaking free from that fear feels impossible right now.
For now, it's all I can do to keep moving forward, one step at a time, hoping I'll find clarity somewhere along the way. Each day feels like a delicate dance between holding onto my past and daring to dream of a future with him.
Maybe someday I'll muster the courage to tear down these walls and let someone in. Until then, I'll just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, praying that the path ahead will somehow become clearer.