7
EMILIA
I hadn’t left the apartment in seven days.
Seven whole days.
The first day, I didn’t get out of bed. I just laid there, wrapped in my sheets like they could protect me from the way my world had shifted. My phone buzzed a few times. Emails, mostly, and a text from Leann checking in, but I didn’t look at any of them. I couldn’t.
The ache in my chest had settled like fog. I kept thinking I’d wake up and find out it was a nightmare, that the memory of his voice saying You were a good fuck was some twisted trick of my brain. But it wasn’t. It was real. All of it. Every last word.
And it was all my fault. I let it come this far, opening up to a man who I knew was ruthless and cold.
On the second day, I cried. Not softly. Not elegantly. I cried the kind of cry that gutted you from the inside out, until there was nothing left but the wreckage. I screamed into a pillow. I cursed his name. Cursed my name. I paced around the apartment with my hands balled into fists, like I could punch the feelings out of me.
I didn’t eat. Barely drank anything. My mouth was dry, and my head throbbed constantly, but I didn’t care. What was the point? And I deserved to feel this way. I did this to myself. I deserved it all.
On the third day, I tried to feel normal again. I took a shower. It was my first since everything. I stared at myself in the mirror afterward, just dripping and hollow. My skin was paler than ever. My eyes were red. I didn’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She looked tired. Older. Like she’d been cracked open and left to rot.
I wrapped myself in the biggest sweater I owned and sat on the couch for hours, flipping through Netflix without actually watching anything. I tried to journal, tried to write it all out like people say you should, but the only thing I could bring myself to write was I miss him over and over, until the words blurred on the page.
I hated myself for missing him.
I hated that after everything he said to me, my heart still wanted him. That I still had this ridiculous hope he’d show up outside my door, say it was all a mistake, say he panicked, that he did care but he just didn’t know how to say it. I imagined that scene a dozen different ways, each more dramatic than the last.
But he didn’t come.
Of course he didn’t.
By the fourth day, I started getting angry. Angry at myself, mostly. For falling. For ignoring the signs. For giving him every part of me when he never once promised anything back. I replayed every moment, every kiss, every night in his office, every time he touched me like I meant something to him. And I tried to look for the lies. For the cracks.
But he was too good at pretending.
Or maybe I was just too desperate to believe.
By the fifth day, I was exhausted. My body hurt. My head was foggy. I had this constant pressure behind my eyes, like tears were always waiting, just beneath the surface. I cleaned my apartment out of restlessness more than anything else. I scrubbed the counters, reorganized the bookshelf, refolded the blankets on the couch three times. But it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Because no matter what I did, he was still there. In my head. In my chest.
The sixth day, I woke up from a dream where he kissed my forehead and told me he loved me.
I didn’t cry this time. I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if that dream hurt more or less than the truth.
I made tea. Sat in silence. Let it burn my tongue just to feel something.
On the seventh day, I stood in front of my closet for fifteen minutes, trying to decide if I had the strength to go outside. Not far. Just to the corner store. Maybe even to the park across the street. I hadn’t seen the sun in a week. Hadn’t breathed in anything but recycled air and the scent of the lavender candle I’d been burning into the ground.
But I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
I cried again.
But this time, it was quieter. Less like falling apart. More like releasing something I didn’t need to hold anymore.
It wasn’t healing, not yet.
But it was a start.
Then, there was a knock on my door.
And I knew. Somehow, I just…knew.
Even if it seemed like a dream.
I didn’t get up right away. I sat still on the couch, wrapped in my blanket, clutching a mug of cold tea like it was the one thing keeping me protected from the outside world. My heart pounded. Hard. Loud.
Another knock. Firmer this time. Still not forceful. Hesitant.
Finally, I managed to get up and walk down the hallway to the front door. I studied it, wishing I could see right through it to find out if I was right about who was standing there. I wanted it to be Dean. In the most twisted way, I wanted him to stand there with bloodshot eyes and trembling lips. With sorrowful eyes, and maybe a bouquet of my favorite flowers in his hand, ready to apologize for all the shit he put me through.
On the other hand, I hoped it was just my neighbor, maybe asking if I was okay because she hadn’t seen me in days. Because she usually did. And even though we rarely spoke when we met, I knew she cared. Maybe not enough, though.
Maybe I was just being delusional and none of those options were right. Maybe it hadn’t even knocked, and I only imagined it.
But when I opened the door, Dean was standing there, looking out of place in the hallway of my building. His suit was rumpled. His tie loose. And in his hands was a bouquet of roses—red, fresh, painfully beautiful. They were my second favorite, but I wouldn’t hold that against him.
Because how would he even know about my love for Peonies? He never asked me things. Only demanded and took. Never asked. Ever.
But…he was here.
He didn’t speak at first, just stood there, his face tight with something between guilt and panic. Like he was scared I wouldn’t open the door, and even more scared that I had.
“I’m sorry,”
he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I shouldn’t be here, I know. But I needed to make sure you’re okay.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. I just stared at him. At the roses. At the man who had gutted me with words he probably didn’t even think twice about saying.
He held the roses out, but I didn’t take them, so he pulled them back and dropped his gaze, sighing heavily. Then, after a while, he looked up again and said, “I messed up. I know I did. I was cruel. I told myself it was easier to make it mean nothing than admit that it ever meant something at all.”
He exhaled, jaw clenched. “You were never supposed to get to me. That wasn’t the deal. I don’t…do feelings. Not with anyone. Especially not with someone who works for me.”
The reminder sliced through me like a sharp knife.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,”
I shot back, tears stinging my eyes.
He flinched, pain flashing in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Is this a joke?”
I crossed my arms and straightened up to stand taller. To try and seem unfazed by him standing there. But as hard as I tried…I still felt small and defeated.
“What—”
Dean shook his head, his brow furrowing deeply. “It’s not a joke, Emilia. I was worried. I’m glad you’re—”
“I’m not okay and it’s all your fault!”
My whole body was shaking, and the finger pointing at him trembled the most. I wanted to fall to my knees and cry into my hands. Wanted to let out all the emotions I only allowed myself to see the past week. Wanted him to see them, to see how broken I was because of him. But my feet were glued to the floor beneath me.
Dean looked perplexed. Shocked that I shouted at him. That I outed those words. But it shouldn’t have surprised him. And, slowly, he accepted it. He nodded once, his jaw ticking. “I know. And I’m sorry, Emilia. That’s why I’m here, and I hope you’ll hear me out. Please.”
I blinked fast, trying to get the tears to fall. But they didn’t. They only blurred my vision more and more.
“Please, Emilia,”
he whispered.
I crossed my arms and lifted my head, chin high up in the air. I deserved his apology, but I wasn’t so sure he deserved to explain himself. But, God, did I want to listen. I swallowed hard. “Fine. Talk.”
His expression changed. A mix of relief and hope flashed in his eyes as he ran his free hand through his hair. “The way I treated you was wrong. I thought if I kept it simple, kept it physical, it would be fine. And then it wasn’t. I’m an asshole. Always have been, but women had never gotten under my skin. Not like you have, Emilia.”
I wanted to believe him. As much as his words caused goosebumps all over my skin, I couldn’t accept his apology. Not yet. My heart betrayed me again, beating fast as he spoke. If my feelings had been messy before, they were getting even messier now.
Dean continued. “And instead of facing that like a fucking adult, I lashed out. I tried to erase it. Erase you.”
A pause. His voice cracked, just barely. “But I couldn’t.”
I hated that those words hit me. That some small part of me still wanted to believe them.
“You hurt me,”
I said quietly.
“I know,”
he murmured. “And I’m not asking for anything. I’m not asking to be forgiven. I just…I needed to tell you. It wasn’t nothing to me. You weren’t nothing.” He looked down, then back at me. “You were the only real thing I’ve had in a long time. And I was too much of a coward to admit it until it was too late.”
I stared at him for a long moment. At the man who broke me. At the man who might have just told the truth for the first time.
Then, slowly, I…
Option 1:
reached for the doorknob and closed the door in his face.
(go to chapter 8)
Option 2:
reached for the roses and said, “Let’s talk inside.”
(go to chapter 15)