CHAPTER 8 – Emilia
For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to wake up.
The morning is slow, heavy.
I drift between wakefulness and sleep, lingering in the space where time doesn’t exist, where the warmth of last night still clings to my skin. My body is sore in the best way, muscles languid, each movement a reminder of him.
My eyers are closed, and I do not want to open them.
Not when I can still feel him.
The heat of his body, the weight of his touch, the slow, deliberate way he ruined me last night.
I’m warm, sore, aching in places I didn’t know could ache.
But it’s a good ache.
A memory branded into my skin, woven into my bones.
My limbs feel heavy, boneless, satisfied, and I don’t move.
I let myself stay in this moment, my eyes still closed, soaking in the quiet, breathing in the lingering scent of smoke, cedar, and him.
I don’t want to open my eyes.
Because I know the second I do—the illusion will shatter.
And I’m not ready for that.
Not ready to face him.
Not ready to see what last night meant in the daylight.
But I can feel it.
That slow pull of dread in my chest, warning me.
Something’s wrong.
Something is… off.
I inhale, steadying myself, forcing the courage to finally open my eyes.
And that’s when I realize—
He isn’t there.
The bed is cold.
The sheets beneath my fingertips are smooth, undisturbed.
My stomach clenches.
Where is he?
I blink against the early morning light, my body slowly waking up to the wrongness of the silence.
Maybe he’s in the bathroom.
Maybe he just stepped outside.
Maybe—
I push up on my elbows, the blanket sliding down my bare skin.
The fire is still burning low, the soft crackle of dying embers the only sound in the cabin.
Outside, the sky is pale, the aftermath of the storm still clinging to the damp air.
I listen.
I wait.
But there’s nothing.
I should have known.
I should have fucking known.
The thought slams into me, a slow, creeping weight in my chest.
Because I already know.
I already know what I’m going to find.
Still, I check anyway.
Because some stupid, pathetic, hopeful part of me needs proof.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cool against my bare feet.
The air feels different now—too still, too empty.
Like whatever warmth existed here last night is already gone.
The cabin feels… hollow.
Every shadow stretches wider, every creak of wood louder in the absence of his presence.
I glance at the door, half-expecting to see it open, half-hoping I’ll hear the sound of his footsteps outside.
But the silence is thick. Suffocating.
I move through the space, my limbs stiff, my fingers brushing over the couch, the chair—anywhere he had been.
Each place he touched, each space he occupied, is just that now.
Space.
Empty, unyielding, cold.
My stomach twists, but I force myself to move.
The throw blanket I left for him is still there, barely touched.
The pillow—the one that smelled like me, the one I caught him staring at yesterday—is discarded, forgotten.
I turn to the table.
The bandages and his cloth?
Gone.
My chest tightens.
I take slow, deliberate steps toward the kitchen, my fingers brushing over the worn wooden counter.
The coffee pot is still warm.
The chairs are untouched.
And then—I see it.
A folded piece of paper.
Sitting there.
Waiting for me.
My breath shudders.
I don’t want to touch it.
Because the second I do, the second I open it—everything changes.
Right now, there’s still a chance.
A chance that he’s coming back.
A chance that he just needed a moment, a breath, a reprieve.
But this?
This is an ending.
And I don’t know if I’m ready to face it.
My heart slams into my ribs.
I stare at it, frozen.
Because this?
This is confirmation.
This is proof that he left.
Not just that he stepped outside.
Not just that he needed air.
He left me.
The thought nearly knocks the breath out of me.
Not after last night.
Not after what we shared.
How could he?
How could he?
My hands shake as I reach for the note, my fingers trembling as I unfold the paper.
For a long moment, I don’t move.
I just stare at the note, my breath slow, shallow, measured.
The world around me feels distant, muffled.
Like I’m watching this moment happen to someone else.
The edges of the paper are smooth beneath my fingertips, cool and unassuming.
But it feels like a live wire in my hands.
Something dangerous.
Something is about to change everything.
My stomach tightens.
I take a slow, unsteady breath.
Then I unfold the letter.
My eyes skim over the words.
Once.
Twice.
And then—
I stop breathing.
Emilia,
I shouldn’t have touched you.
I shouldn’t have let last night happen.
But I did.
And I don’t regret it.
But I can’t stay.
This isn’t my world.
And you don’t belong in mine.
You saved my life.
That’s the only reason I’m leaving without a fight.
Don’t come looking for me.
- Rafe
Silence.
A deep, deafening silence settles over me.
The words are sharp. Precise.
Each one slices clean, carving into the space between my ribs, leaving something raw and open in its wake.
I shouldn’t have touched you.
A sharp inhale.
I shouldn’t have let last night happen.
A sting behind my eyes.
But I did. And I don’t regret it.
That part—the smallest mercy—is the one that hurts the most.
I read it again and again.
As if the letters will shift.
As if he’ll take it back.
But he doesn’t.
Because he’s gone.
I reread the words, as if they might change, as if I might have imagined the sharp, merciless finality of them.
But they don’t.
I slowly lower myself into the chair, my fingers still curled around the edges of the paper, as if loosening my grip might make the words slip away, erase them from existence.
But they’re still there.
Still sinking in.
And then—
A tear hits the page.
I freeze.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until another one falls, blurring the ink.
My breath shudders out, sharp and uneven.
Then my hands start shaking.
I don’t even recognize the sound that leaves me.
It’s not a sob.
It’s not a cry.
It’s something broken. Something lost.
The ink smudges beneath my fingertips, the blurred letters staring back at me like a wound I can’t stitch shut.
I swipe at my face, but the tears keep coming, slow and silent, soaking into the paper like they belong there.
Like they were meant for this.
Like I was meant for this.
A mistake.
A regret.
A moment that never should have happened.
Because he left.
And not just that—he left without a goodbye.
No words.
Just a fucking note.
As if I was nothing more than a mistake.
As if he could erase last night with ink and paper.
A sharp, bitter laugh breaks from my throat.
It doesn’t match the burn in my chest.
It doesn’t match the way my hands tremble against the letter.
I am not angry, not at first.
But it’s building.
Something thick and hot, rising in my throat, clawing at my ribs.
At first, it’s disbelief.
Then, it’s betrayal.
Then, it’s something sharp.
Something I can’t contain.
How dare he.
How dare he touch me like that, look at me like that, make me feel like that—only to leave.
Only to walk away as if none of it mattered.
As if I didn’t matter.
"Unbelievable," I whisper.
My fingers tighten around the paper, crumpling the edges beneath my grip.
The burning in my chest spreads, curling in my ribs, twisting into something hotter.
Something wilder.
Something that is no longer sadness.
No longer hurt.
But rage.
A slow, simmering, uncontrollable rage.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
After everything.
After what we shared.
After he let me fall for him, let me believe—even for a second—that he was something more.
That I was something more.
I slam the letter down on the table.
I stand so fast the chair screeches against the floor.
The fire still crackles in the hearth, the embers barely glowing now.
And yet, I am burning.
With rage.
With betrayal.
With a storm I don’t know how to put out.
"Fuck you," I whisper, my voice hoarse.
I don’t even know who I’m saying it to.
To him?
To myself?
To the stupid, na?ve version of me that actually thought he might stay?
The one that actually believed the way he touched me meant something?
I swipe at my face, catching a stray tear before it can fall.
I won’t cry for him.
I won’t.
Instead, I grab the note, crumpling it into my fist.
I stare at the note.
Like he didn’t just make me fall apart beneath him.
Like he didn’t just leave his mark all over me.
And something inside me snaps.
I turn on my heel, marching toward the fireplace, my hands clenching around the note like a vice.
The flames flicker weakly, dying embers glowing beneath the charred logs.
I toss the paper in.
Watch as the edges curl, blacken, turn to ash.
As if it never existed.
As if he never existed.
Good.
Let it burn.
Let it all fucking burn.
The fire crackles, the last remnants of his words disappearing into nothing.
And yet, I don’t feel any lighter.
If anything, the weight in my chest presses harder.
I tell myself it’s anger.
I tell myself I’m mad because he ran, because he’s a coward, because he’s an asshole who thinks he can just walk away.
But the truth?
The truth is I’m mad because he did exactly what I expected him to do.
And that’s the worst part.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
Fine.
He’s gone.
Good.
I don’t need him.
I don’t need anyone.
But even as the flames devour the note, the words stay with me.
They linger.
Etched into my skin.
Branded into my bones.
No matter how much I want to, I can’t unhear them.
Can’t unfeel them.
And that’s what makes my stomach twist the hardest.
Because I can destroy the letter.
I can erase the ink.
But I can’t erase the way he made me fall for him.
And I hate him for it.
I hate him for making me want something I was never meant to have.