Chapter 24
IVY
Over the next couple of days, Soren’s texts don’t let up.
The sheer volume of his attention should feel overwhelming. But it doesn’t. It feels steady, like a constant line running through my day. Something I can reach for without thinking. Like he’s threaded himself into the background of everything—quiet. Present. Waiting.
It’s almost like he’s here with me.
That should feel strange. It is strange.
But it’s also stabilizing somehow.
Like I have someone in my pocket I can turn to the second something inside me tilts.
I find myself telling him everything. Not the big things.
The small ones. The stupid ones. What someone said to me at the coffee shop.
The way Adrian looked at me when I walked in—the tone in his voice when he asked where I’d been.
The tiny flickers of discomfort that would normally sit in my chest and grow teeth if I left them alone too long.
I send them before I can stop myself.
And he answers all of it. Always. No delay. No hesitation. No why are you telling me this.
He’s always so calm about it, too. Like nothing I say is excessive. Like nothing I feel needs to be minimized or explained away. Like I’m not too much.
That part hits harder than it should.
Like I’ve been pulled out of something warm and familiar and dropped somewhere quieter. Colder.
I was only in Ravelle for a few days. In a place I’d never been. With a man I barely knew. And yet it feels like I’m coming down from him.
Not the place.
Not the experience.
Him.
The only thing I don’t mention is the two messages I’ve received.
An anonymous number, taunting me.
I thought the first one was just a wrong number.
But then I got another.
They’re both creepy, haunting. They sound eerily like my unhinged ex.
But that would be impossible. He’s in prison. I have a restraining order against him. There’s no way he’d be stupid enough to message me from in there, and risk extending his sentence.
I don’t want Soren to think I’m a problem. That I come with the baggage of a psycho ex who nearly killed me. He knows that he exists, of course, thanks to my complete breakdown on social media.
But he doesn’t need to think that he’s a continued presence in my life. And I’m not even certain it’s him. So I keep the messages, just in case.
I don’t reply.
And I try to shove them down in my mind.
The shift happens slowly. So slowly I don’t notice.
At first, it’s just texts. Then calls. His voice low in my ear, slipping into the quiet parts of my day like it belongs there. Like it’s always been there.
He asks what I’m doing. What I’m wearing. What I’m eating.
Simple questions. Normal questions. Except he remembers the answers. He follows up. He notices when something changes. He wants photos. My meals. My outfits. Me—curled up in bed at night, hair messy, skin bare, looking like something unguarded and soft.
I hesitate the first time. My thumb hovers over the screen. Something in my chest tightens, a sharp flicker of—why?
But it passes. Because nothing about him feels careless. Because nothing about him feels like a threat.
So I send them.
And nothing bad happens. No consequence. No moment where I regret it. He just… responds.
Not with control. Not with demands.
With attention. With focus. Like he’s actually seeing me. Like the details matter.
Like I matter.
My body softens every time I hear from him. It’s immediate. Automatic. The tightness I didn’t realize I was holding eases. My shoulders drop. My breathing slows. The constant noise in my head—questions, doubts, spirals—just quiets.
Like something slots into place.
It’s easier when someone else decides.
The thought slips in so cleanly I almost miss it.
The way I don’t have to think about the small things anymore—the things that would normally loop in my head, over and over, until I’ve exhausted myself trying to land on the “right” choice.
I just ask his opinion.
And he answers.
And it works.
I send him a photo of my dinner one night.
Something quick. Easy. One of those microwave meals I grabbed without thinking, all plastic packaging and vague promises printed on the front.
I didn’t even really look at it. Didn’t care. I just needed something fast.
There’s a pause. Long enough for me to notice it.
Then—
Soren:
You’re going to eat that?
My stomach drops instantly.
It’s stupid. It’s just a question. But heat creeps up my neck anyway, a flush of something that feels uncomfortably close to embarrassment.
I look down at the meal in my hands. The glossy, artificial sheen of it. The way it smells slightly off now that I’m paying attention.
Me:
I thought it looked good at the store… I guess it looks a bit different than what’s on the outside of the box.
The typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Appears again.
The pause stretches just enough to make me shift on my feet.
Soren:
It’s fine.
But you’ll feel like shit after.
I swallow.
Because I already know he’s right. I can feel it. The heaviness. The way my body is already bracing for something it doesn’t want.
Me:
What should I get instead?
The response is immediate. No pause this time.
Soren:
Ramen. With a nourishing broth.
You could add a couple of spice bombs. I know you like that.
Clear. Specific. Like he’s already decided.
Like he already knows.
I don’t argue. I don’t second guess it. I order exactly what he tells me to.
When it arrives, I sit on the edge of my bed, the container warm in my hands. Steam curls up, carrying the scent with it—rich, savory, umami. Real in a way the other meal wasn’t.
I take a bite. And—god. It’s so much better. Not just taste. Everything.
Warm. Grounding. Easy.
My shoulders drop. My body settles. Actually settles. Like something unclenches deep inside me. I exhale slowly, almost without realizing it.
My phone buzzes.
Soren:
Better?
I blink at the screen. I don’t remember telling him I’d started eating.
Me:
Yeah.
The reply comes quickly.
Soren:
Good girl.
The words land low. Soft. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t feel familiar yet.
My chest tightens.
But I don’t pull away.
I don’t question it.
Because I do feel better. And that matters more than anything else.
It leaves something strange behind inside me—a kind of hollow space.
Like something’s been removed.
Or replaced.
He’s everywhere now.
Not physically. But close enough that it doesn’t feel different.
When I pick out clothes, I pause. Think about what he’d like. What he’d say. What he’d notice.
When I choose a show to watch, I catch myself wondering if he’d approve. If he’d think it’s a waste of time. If he’d tell me to pick something better.
When I hesitate—when I overthink—my hand moves before I consciously decide. Reaching for my phone. For him.
And he’s always there. Seamless. Constant. Certain.
When he takes too long to reply, I feel it immediately. A sharp, restless edge under my skin. Like static. Like something’s been interrupted mid-signal.
It builds faster than it should. That tight, buzzing discomfort. That low, creeping sense that something isn’t right.
Until my phone lights up again. His name. His message. And just like that, it settles.
Everything settles.
It’s easier this way.
That thought comes again, stronger now. Quieter. More convincing.
I don’t have to think. I don’t have to question. I don’t have to sit alone inside my own head, trying to untangle everything by myself.
I just have to listen.
And when I do, everything feels better.
Everything feels… right.