twenty four
I'd been watching it for so long that the numbers didn't even look like numbers anymore-just soft blue light in the dark, reminding me I still hadn't figured out what to say.
I hadn't slept. Not really.
After I came home, I'd cried until my body was too wrung out to do anything else. Then I'd curled under the blanket and tried to pretend I could forget the way she'd looked at me-like I was a stain she couldn't scrub out of her perfect life.
Like I didn't belong anywhere near her son.
My phone was still on the pillow beside me. Screen dark. But even without turning it over, I knew what I'd find.
Messages. Missed calls.
He hadn't stopped trying.
The first text came in before I'd even made it back to my building.
I hadn't replied. Not to that one. Not to the three that came after.
I'd spent all day telling myself I didn't owe him anything. That I was allowed to need space. That it was better this way-cleaner, simpler, safer.
But it didn't feel clean. It felt like there was a splinter under my skin I couldn't dig out.
And the truth-the ugly, pitiful truth-was that I missed him.
Even after everything. Even after her.
I missed the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that made sense. The way he'd listened, without flinching, when I told him about the parts of my past I usually kept locked up. The way he'd said, quiet but certain, You deserve everything you're dreaming of.
I'd never told anyone about the salon suite before him. Not really.
And now it all felt impossibly far away. Like a version of my life I'd only imagined in the moments when it was easy to pretend we were bigger than the program-bigger than the expectations and the headlines and the stories people would write about a girl like me.
Maybe I'd been stupid to think it could be real.
My chest ached. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes, willing the feeling to pass.
It didn't.
A fresh notification buzzed against the mattress. My hand twitched.
I should have ignored it. But some small, hopeful part of me was still tethered to the possibility that he meant every word he'd said-that he didn't care about optics, or consequences, or his mother's carefully practiced disdain.
That maybe he saw me as more than the story everyone else would write.
When I finally turned the phone over, my throat went tight.
Brooks
I don't know what else to do. I just want to see you. Please.
I pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes.
I'd been so sure, this morning, that putting space between us would make things easier. That stepping back would make it hurt less.
But lying here in the dark, alone, it didn't feel like relief.
It felt like losing something I hadn't even let myself admit I wanted.
I swallowed hard and clicked Call before I could change my mind.
It rang once. Twice.
Then he picked up.
"Amira?"
His voice was hoarse, lower than usual. Like he hadn't slept either.
"Yeah," I whispered.
I could almost feel the breath he let out. "Are you okay?"
I pressed my palm to my forehead. "I don't know how I feel."
He was quiet for a moment. "I don't expect you to. Today was...a lot."
Another pause. His voice dropped even lower. "I hate knowing you're upset. That you think any of this is your fault."
I swallowed. "It's not about fault."
"I know," he murmured. "I know. But I don't want this to be the reason you pull away from us."
Us.
The word twisted something in my chest.
I closed my eyes. My heart felt too big for my ribs.
"Come over," he said. "Please. I know it's late, but...I need to see you."
I almost said no. The word was right there, balanced on the tip of my tongue.
But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
Because I didn't want to be alone in this room one second longer.
"...Okay," I breathed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He exhaled, and something in me loosened, just a little.
I hung up before I could hear the relief in his voice again.
For a moment, I just sat there, phone pressed to my collarbone. My hands were trembling.
Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.
I pulled on a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized black hoodie, tying my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I didn't bother looking in the mirror. I knew if I did, I'd start second-guessing everything-how small I looked, how out of place I'd always been.
In the living room, I grabbed my keys and my purse.
When I stepped outside, the hallway was dim and hushed. My footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet.
The elevator ride down felt interminable. My reflection looked hollow-eyed and pale.
And all I could think was that maybe I'd been stupid to believe any of this could end differently. That maybe I'd been fooling myself all along.
That thinking we could be anything more than a cautionary tale was just another kind of delusion.
But beneath all of it-the exhaustion, the shame, the fear-was something steadier.
The simple, undeniable truth that even if this was a mistake, it was my mistake to make.
And I wasn't ready to let him go.
Not yet.
Philadelphia at midnight was all shadows and quiet, the kinds of empty streets that made you feel like you were the last person awake in the world.
I kept one hand wrapped tight around the steering wheel, the other resting in my lap, thumb worrying a little crescent-shaped mark into the skin.
What was I doing?
Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer.
I was doing exactly what I'd always done-following the softest place in my heart, even if it was the surest way to hurt myself.
Part of me kept replaying the look on his mother's face-cool, unbothered, already certain of what I was.
Like she'd seen it a hundred times before.
Like she knew exactly how this story ended.
A girl like me didn't belong in their world.
I'd told myself I was different. That this was different. That it was more than a transaction, more than the program or the expectations or the headline waiting to be written.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing I'd done-believing we were somehow bigger than all of it.
The light turned green. I eased my foot off the brake, my stomach hollow.
I thought about turning around more times than I could count. About going home, turning off my phone, and pretending none of this was happening.
But every time I pictured him sitting in that penthouse, waiting for a door that wouldn't open, something in me clenched too tight to ignore.
I didn't want to be the reason he felt abandoned.
Even if I was terrified he'd be the reason I learned I was disposable after all.
By the time I pulled up in front of his building, the doorman was waiting. He pressed the buzzer without a word, polite and practiced, as if he hadn't seen me only days ago in a different dress, pretending I belonged.
I stepped into the lobby, the hush swallowing me whole.
Marble floors. Gold fixtures. The faint scent of polished wood and something expensive I couldn't name.
I used to think it was beautiful. Now it just felt like proof I was out of my depth.
I crossed to the elevator, each step sounding too loud, and pressed the button for the penthouse.
In the mirrored panel, my reflection looked small. Pale.
The elevator started to rise, and I folded my arms across my chest.
I didn't know what I expected him to say.
That it didn't matter?
That it would all blow over?
That I was worth the fallout?
My throat went tight.
Some selfish part of me wanted to hear it. Even if it wasn't true.
The elevator chimed.
I stepped into the corridor, my heart tripping over itself.
His door was already cracked open.
I hesitated, pressing my palm against the cool wood, and told myself this was the last chance I'd have to walk away.
Then I lifted my hand and knocked.
The door swung inward.
Brooks stood barefoot in sweatpants and a soft gray t-shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragging his hands through it all night. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he reached out, like he needed to prove I was real.
"Hi," he said quietly.
"Hi."
His hand brushed my arm, tentative, before he stepped back to let me in.
I crossed the threshold, the familiar ache settling in my chest.
Being here felt like the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
Not because of what it looked like from the outside.
Because of what it felt like on the inside.
Because I already knew I wouldn't survive being wrong about him.
He closed the door, then leaned against it, watching me.
"I'm glad you came back."
I lifted one shoulder in a shrug that didn't feel casual. "Yeah."
For a moment, the silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we hadn't said.
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
I looked up. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were tired. Open.
"You don't have to-"
"I do," he said, voice low. "For all of it. For the way she talked to you. For not warning you that this was even possible."
I swallowed. "You didn't know she'd come."
"That doesn't matter." His gaze didn't waver. "I should have prepared you. I should have-"
"I don't want you to do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk about it like us being together is some problem you need to manage."
His face fell, and for a second, I wished I hadn't said it.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know," I whispered. "But that's how it feels."
He pushed off the door and crossed the space between us.
His hands lifted, hovering near my face before settling gently along my jaw.
"I don't see you as a problem," he said. "You know that, right?"
I blinked, my eyes stinging. "I don't know anything right now."
His thumb traced a slow line along my cheekbone, the silence folding around us.
He lowered his head and kissed me-soft, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to convince me it wasn't a mistake to be here.
For a moment, I let myself believe him. Let myself sink into the quiet warmth of his mouth, the way his hands held me like I was something precious.
When he pulled back, I was shaking.