Chapter Twenty-One Joshua
Chapter Twenty-One
Joshua
The rain started just before I was ready to leave for class, and since it was Thursday, it was important because we had a game on Saturday, and practice shouldn’t be skipped.
But I can’t move, the rain… the fucking rain wouldn’t let me. It was soft at first, harmless, almost quiet. Then harder. Louder. Until it was all I could hear. So I decided to stay back.
I sat on the floor, leaning back against my bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. Cancel practice. Tell her not to come.
The words blurred together. My hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just water. But the sound… God, the sound. The hollow tap against the glass. The way it slid down in uneven trails, catching the light before vanishing. The smell of it in the air: wet asphalt, metal, ghosts.
My chest tightened. I swallowed hard, throat dry, the phone screen glowing pale in my lap.
Hey team, practice’s off today.
Hey, Campbell, don’t show up.
I could type it. I could. But my fingers wouldn’t move.
The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the rain louder. Every drop against the window hit like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.
Mom.
My eyes squeezed shut. The memory crawled up anyway, like it always did when the rain came.
Her voice downstairs. The slam of the door. Bare feet on wet pavement. Me, five years old, trying to keep up, my shoes slipping on the sidewalk. Her hair sticking to her face. The streetlight turning red.
She didn’t stop.
The car didn’t stop.
Just the sound, the crack, the scream, the silence after. And me, standing there in shoes too big, staring at the road where she’d been.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest, hard. Tried to breathe through it.
I hate the rain.
I hate it.
It’s been years. I’m twenty. Captain of Silverwood’s football team. I’ve been hit, broken, bruised, but nothing ever hits harder than this.
I should be out there.
I should be leading them.
I should be calling her… Aurora, to tell her not to come, that I can’t do this today. But I can’t even move my thumb. So I just sat there, phone in my lap, shaking like the scared little boy I swore I’d never be again.
The rain kept falling.
And I didn’t let it touch me.
Then the screen lit up, knocking me out of my spiral, bright against the dark room.
My Princess: Is practice cancelled? Everyone’s waiting.
I stared at the message until it blurred. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, the sound of the rain filling every inch of silence. It hit the window like small fists, relentless.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Then settled on the only thing I had energy for.
Me: Yeah.
No explanation. No captain talk. Just that.
That’s all my body was allowed to give.
I dropped the phone onto the floor beside me and leaned back until my head hit the edge of the mattress. The bass of the rain thudded through the glass, which made my stomach turn.
Headphones. I needed the noise to stop.
I grabbed them from the nightstand, slid them on, and pressed play. The music drowned everything else out, almost. I turned the volume up until the rain became a dull echo.
Eyes closed.
Breathe.
Imagine something else.
Imagine… the soft curve of her cheeks, the way her lashes trembled when she tried not to look at me. The sound of her humming that day was unguarded and still the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
I could picture her now, tucked under a library window somewhere, rain light flickering over her hair, notebook open, pen steady. Probably frowning at my one-word reply, thinking I was mad again.
I wasn’t. I just couldn’t breathe.
I let the music pulse through me, every beat pushing the memory of the accident further away. But when the song softened, she was still there, Aurora, quiet, bright, too soft for the world.
If I had to imagine something good, it would always be her.
The rain kept falling. I kept my eyes closed.
—
The music had turned into white noise hours ago. I didn’t remember when I stopped hearing it.
When I opened my eyes, the room was dim. The rain hadn’t let up. My phone sat beside me, screen dark until a soft chime cut through the air.
Someone’s at the door.
I blinked at it, throat dry. The clock on the wall glowed 4:23 p.m.
I just lost half the day.
For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the notification. The thought of moving felt heavy, like dragging myself through water. Then another chime, one long press of the doorbell, and I forced my legs to move.
Each step across the penthouse floor echoed against the quiet, the rain still whispering against the windows. I rubbed my face, trying to make myself look human before unlocking the door.
The hinge clicked.
The hallway outside was washed in pale light, sterile and white. At the far end, by the elevator, a figure stood with her back turned.
Aurora.
Hair damp around her shoulders, sleeves of her cardigan clinging to her arms. She was holding something, her phone, maybe, and for a second she didn’t realise I was there.
I swallowed hard.
She turned just as I drew breath, her movements small, hesitant.
Our eyes met.
The distance between us wasn’t far, but it felt endless. Her expression flickered: surprise, relief, something else I couldn’t name.
I’d taken too long. She must’ve thought I wasn’t going to answer.
The hall was silent except for the rain tapping faintly on the glass walls beyond. I couldn’t make myself speak; my mouth had gone dry.
She didn’t move closer. Neither did I.
Just the two of us, staring across the white corridor, the air thick with everything we’d never said. Her fingers tightened around her phone. Mine around the doorhandle.
And for a heartbeat, the noise of the rain disappeared, just her and me, suspended between a door half-open and an elevator ready to close.
She hesitated, then turned fully and started walking toward me. Her footsteps were small, barely a sound against the floor. Each one made my pulse louder in my ears.
When she stopped in front of me, I saw her reach into her bag, slow, careful, and pull something out. A plastic bag, slightly fogged from the rain.
She held it out with both hands.
I blinked down at it, then up at her. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.
Inside the bag was a takeaway box. One I knew. The kind Alex always brought when he thought I hadn’t eaten.
Of course.
Alex.
He knew me too well, knew what today was, knew how rain turned me inside out. He’d done this before: dropped food off, texted reminders, made sure I didn’t disappear into the noise in my head.
But this time, he hadn’t come himself.
He’d sent her.
Because Alex must’ve known. Must’ve known that she was the only person who could step into this hallway and not make me want to shut the door again.
I stared at the bag, my throat tightening. My hand came up on its own, fingers brushing hers as I took it. Her skin was cool from the rain.
“Thanks,” I managed, the word coming out rough, uneven.
She gave a small nod, barely more than a dip of her chin. Her eyes flickered up to mine once, cautious but kind.
The bag rustled between us. She started to step back, as if her job was done, as if she didn’t want to intrude.
I should’ve let her leave. She’d done what she came to do. Simple. Clean. Door closed. Day over.
But the words left my mouth before I could think. “Wait.”
She stopped, shoulders tensing, head turning back slowly. The elevator doors had already closed, but they slid open again with a soft hiss.
I cleared my throat, fingers tightening around the plastic bag. “The partner work… tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll make it.” The words tasted like defeat. “If you still need me to answer some questions for your psych thing, maybe—”
She blinked, lips parting just slightly, the faintest crease forming between her brows.
“Maybe we can do it now,” I finished, voice rougher than I meant. “I won’t be available tomorrow.”
For a moment, she just stood there, caught between the elevator and me. I could see her thinking, always thinking. Then she gave the smallest nod. Careful. Measured.
“Yeah?” I asked, just to be sure.
Another nod.
Something unknotted in my chest, not gone but looser. I stepped aside, shifting enough to hold the door open. She hesitated again, gaze flicking past me into my home. The lights were dim, the air still heavy with rain.
For the first time all day, the noise in my head faded, not completely, but enough that I could breathe again.
We headed towards the counter, and I placed the bag away as she sat down, pulling out her laptop. I dropped myself down next to her. I don’t know… felt like it.
“Same questions?” She shook her head. “Need time?” Again, she shook her head. She came prepared this time, though it was supposed to be tomorrow.
I guess she wanted to get it over with that badly. Like being near me for too long would corrode her.
But if she were acid, I’d let her burn me.
Maybe we’re just unknowingly burning each other. Toxic but addictive.
She turned the laptop slightly in my direction before pushing it right in front of me. The new set of questions blinked up at me, different from last week, more structured, more personal.
I started typing. The keys clicked quietly in the kitchen. Every few seconds, I’d glance up—habit, I guess—to check if she was okay, to make sure she didn’t look too bored.
But she was just doing her assignment next to me, legs swinging lightly off the counter, glancing over at my screen here and there like she was making sure I was answering right.
Then something changed.
Her posture.
She’d gone still, shoulders stiff, spine straightening just slightly as her eyes fixed on—
I glanced down.
My forearm rested on the counter, skin exposed under the sleeve of my t-shirt. The tattoos curled across it, black ink, jagged lines, phrases I’d pretended meant something deeper.
I looked at her face, thinking she was just admiring the art.
But no.
No one looks at art like that.
Concerned.
Worried.
That soft kind of worry that hurts more than anything else because it’s real.
The air left my chest as I realised what she was truly staring at, what I kept hidden beneath the ink.
The scars.
They were faint now, half-buried under the tattoos, but still there. The kind that ink can’t erase, no matter how dark it gets.
Shit.
I forced my attention back to the laptop, typing something, anything to fill the silence. To pretend I didn’t care that she saw—saw something no one did.
Saw me. A flaw.
The air between us shifted. Heavier. Quieter.
I could feel her still watching me from the corner of her eye, like she didn’t know whether to ask or to stay silent.
I wished she wouldn’t look at me like that. Like I was someone who could still break.
I swallowed hard, muscles locking as I tried to keep my breathing even.
Don’t look at it. Don’t look at me like that.
But she did.
And every second she did, it felt like the ink burned a little more.
I clenched my jaw, shutting the laptop, pushing it towards her. “Send it to my email, get out.”
The words came out harsher than I meant. They hit the air like a door slamming.
She froze, hands still gripping tightly around her pen, the soft worry in her eyes dimming into confusion. I couldn’t look at her. My pulse was pounding too hard, my throat too tight. I stood up too fast; the stool scraped against the tiles.
“Just—” I forced the words out through my teeth, still not meeting her gaze. “Go. I’ll finish the rest later.”
She didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, she nodded. Her fingers hovered over the laptop, hesitating. I could feel her eyes on me again, gentle but cutting.
I gripped the counter’s edge until my knuckles burned. Stop looking at me like I’m something you can fix.
She lifted the laptop gently and slid it into her bag, the zipper soft but final. She slipped off the counter, not saying anything. Of course she didn’t. Just stood there for a heartbeat, her hands clutching the strap of her bag, like she wanted to do something but didn’t know what.
Then she gave a small nod, more like a breath than a movement, and turned for the door.
I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, every muscle locked to keep from calling her back. To tell her I didn’t mean to say that. I wanted her to stay, to see me more.
The door opened. The hallway light spilt in. And then it clicked shut again, leaving only the sound of rain.
I pressed my palms against the counter and let my head drop forward, breath shaking.
Come back.