Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MALIK
I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, unraveling thread by thread, but the worst part is—I don’t know if I want to stop it.
The first day is a lie. I go through the motions like a puppet with its strings pulled. Work, coffee, the endless cycle of pretending I’m fine. I smile when people talk to me, nod at the right times. My hands shake every time I grip my phone, but I don’t send the messages I keep typing—keep deleting. I tell myself that when I wake up, I’ll feel different. I’ll feel normal again. I don’t.
By day two, the pretending stops. I can’t keep up the mask anymore. The emptiness grows, sharp and raw, carving out space inside me. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I just stare at my phone, waiting for the texts Indigo hasn’t sent, for the missed calls she hasn't made. The gaping hole where she used to be. Her absence presses on my chest like a weight I can’t shake off. I can’t even bring myself to press that call button. It’s like I’m scared to hear her voice, scared to know what she'll say, scared of what I’ll do when I hear her.
Day three is when the questions start. The ones I don't want to answer but can't stop asking myself. What the hell does this mean for me? What does it mean that I don’t feel sick about it? That I’m not disgusted—that I don’t care about Elle’s body hanging in the goddamn woods? That I can’t bring myself to feel anything other than this hollow emptiness? I should feel guilt. I should feel rage. I should want to run to the cops and tell them everything, but all I can think about is her.
“Love me anyway,” she screamed. Like it was something simple, something as natural as breathing.
And maybe it is. Maybe that’s the sickest part of it all. Maybe loving Indigo is as easy as the blood in my veins, and nothing—not even the corpses she’s buried beneath her pretty little feet—can change that.
Day four is when I stop lying to myself.
I pace my house, restless. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and my hands ball into fists, only to release again. I feel angry, empty, lost. I haven’t slept in what feels like weeks, my body aching and my mind racing. The silence presses in, heavier now, suffocating. My chest is tight, and I can’t breathe like I used to.
I’m lonely. I’m sad. I’m fucked up without her. But this? This thing she’s done? It doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know how many people she’s hurt, how many she’s killed before Elle. There’s something about how she talked about it, the way she didn’t hesitate. The coldness in her voice when she explained how she’s careful, how she makes sure she doesn’t get caught.
And that thought, that knowing, makes my stomach churn with something I can’t name. The way she spoke, the way she didn’t hesitate, the way she knew what to do.
Elle was my first dead body. I’ve killed animals when I hunt. I’ve seen animals hit by cars, even held a dying dog in my arms as it bled out. But a person? Never. I should feel bad for her. I should feel something, anything. But I don’t. I feel nothing. Not even fear.
Shouldn’t I feel something? Guilt? Anger? Confusion? Maybe. But all I can think about is the way Indigo’s voice cracked. She begged me to understand, to accept her for what she is. She looked so fucking scared, like she thought I would run. Like she thought I would leave her behind.
I should run. I should get out of here. I should never look back. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want to. That’s the part that terrifies me—the part where I realize that I can’t make myself care about the things I should. I can’t bring myself to hate her.
I need answers. I need to know everything. I can’t love her in pieces. I can’t love her without knowing what I’m signing up for. I need to understand how this works. How many times has she done this before? Why? How? I need to know if she can stop. If she wants to stop. Or if this is just who she is, and if that’s the case, then I need to know so I can make a choice.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my fingers running through my hair as I close my eyes. My head throbs, the pressure in my temple pushing harder and harder until I feel like I’m going to crack. I can’t think straight. I can’t focus.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is her. Her face, her eyes, dark and intense. Her lips, trembling as she pleaded with me. The way she looked at me when she realized I wasn’t going to walk away.
I can’t stop thinking about that look. The fear in her eyes—the fear that I might hate her. But I don't. I can't. I want to protect her. To love her, even in this mess.
I breathe in deeply, trying to calm my mind. My body is begging for sleep, but my mind keeps running, chasing the thoughts that refuse to settle.
And then I realize.
I can’t keep living like this, in the in-between. I need to decide. I can’t keep floating here, waiting for something to change. I have to choose. I have to figure out if I’m going to walk away from her or if I’m going to dive in headfirst and never come back up for air.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I already know which one I’m going to choose.
I can’t stay here, not like this. I need to know where she is. I need to see her face again, to hear her voice, to understand what I’m signing up for. I’ve known it for days now. I’ve known it from the second I watched her face break, watched her plead with me like I was the only person who could save her.
But I didn’t run then. And I’m not going to run now.
I let my hand drop from my head and open my eyes. The walls of my house feel too close, the silence too loud. It’s choking me. I get up, pacing the room, feeling the echo of each step like the weight of every question I’ve been asking myself over the last few days.
I should leave. I should get the hell out of here and pretend I never met her. Pretend I don’t know what it feels like to be tangled in her stunning eyes, the way she looks at me like she needs me in a way I’ll never fully understand.
But I can’t.
I look down at my hands—shaking. The text I typed to her, then deleted. The messages I never sent. The questions I never asked. The guilt I never felt.
I’m supposed to feel guilt, right? I should feel something other than this goddamn emptiness. I should be angry, or scared, or disgusted. But I’m not. I’m just—lost.
I don’t know how many times she’s done this before. I don’t know if she even cares about stopping. I don’t know anything. But I can’t walk away. Not yet.
The fear hits me, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your heart pound in your chest, but I push it down. She’s mine, in some sick, twisted way. And no matter what happens, I can’t make myself care enough to leave her.
I grab my phone and stare at her name. The screen flickers with memories of late nights, of whispered conversations, of quiet moments between the chaos. I’ve never felt more sure of anything, even if it terrifies me.
I can’t love her in pieces. I can’t love her without knowing every part of her. So I need to see her. I need to look into her eyes and hear her say what I’m afraid to ask.
I’m in this now. There’s no turning back.
And I’m okay with that.
I press dial.