Chapter 25 Dove #2
I sit up slowly, the weight of my own body feeling like too much, but Christina’s there, her hand on my back, steadying me.
The softness of her care—her raw, unfiltered concern—melts through the numbness.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I take a deep breath, a little lighter than before.
“I’ll take a shower,” I mumble, my voice hoarse from all the crying. “But I’m still not doing anything after that.”
She winks at me. “Baby steps. Baby steps. But I’m not leaving. You’re going to live, Dove. And I’m going to help you do it.”
The water is hot, almost scalding, as it pours down over my body, the steam rising in thick clouds that blur the surrounding bathroom.
I let it surround me, feeling it slice through the cold emptiness inside of me, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing helps. I stand under the spray; the water pouring like a torrential downpour against my skin, but it’s not enough to wash away the ache in my chest.
I let the hot water hit my face, but it’s no use.
It’s still there—the constant, relentless throb of the pain Ashton left behind.
Every thought that flickers through my mind pulls me deeper into that place, that hollow space where his absence feels like a wound, raw and wide, festering inside of me.
The memory of him stands in front of me like a shadow, his face so sharp and cold, like a wall of ice that now separates us.
The way he stood there, telling me to leave, telling me I meant nothing.
It echoes in my ears. His words—like knives, like broken promises—cut through me every time I try to breathe.
I scrub my face with the palm of my hand, trying to erase the tears that are still fresh on my skin, but I can’t make them go away.
They’re still there, lingering beneath the surface, ready to spill again.
I press my hands against the wall, the cold tile biting into my skin as I let my forehead rest against it.
My body is exhausted, my muscles aching from the weight of grief, but there’s no relief.
Ashton. His name is like a constant hum in my brain, a song I can’t stop hearing no matter how loud the water gets or how hard I scrub at my skin.
It doesn’t stop. The memory of him. The way he looked at me sometimes, when the world felt right, when we were connected, when everything felt like it was meant to be.
And then, the coldness. The way he shattered everything, as though it was just a game to him, and I was nothing but a piece on his board.
I shudder, the sting of the water like a slap to my skin, but it’s not enough to shake the memories loose. The warmth of his body, the way he held me close at night when I thought maybe—just maybe—we were something real. His touch was always so gentle, like he cared, like he wanted to protect me.
But then he broke me.
I slide down the wall, my body slumping to the floor of the shower, my legs giving out beneath me.
The water is so hot now, it’s starting to burn, but I barely feel it.
It’s all just noise—everything is noise.
The drip, drip, drip of the water. The soft hum of the world outside. His face. His eyes. His words.
I meant nothing.
I shake my head, clenching my fists so hard my nails bite into the palms of my hands.
No, no, I don’t believe it. He can’t have meant it.
He couldn’t. The way he touched me, the way he kissed me.
It meant something, didn’t it? He never said he loved me, but it felt like he did.
It felt like we had something real. Didn’t we?
I pull my knees up to my chest, curling in on myself, but the space inside me is too wide, too cold. No matter how tightly I press my arms around myself, no matter how deep I bury my face in my knees, the ache remains. It’s a hole, and it’s getting deeper, threatening to swallow me whole.
A part of me wishes I could forget. A part of me wishes I could erase everything—erase him from my mind, from my heart. But I can’t. It’s like he’s etched into me. A scar I can’t pick at, can’t tear away.
I close my eyes, and even in the darkness behind my lids, I see him. I see his face, the pain in his eyes when he told me to leave. He was hurting too, wasn’t he? Or maybe it was all just an act. A performance.
I feel my tears mingling with the water, flowing down my cheeks and mingling with the rivulets of hot water that streak down my body. They don’t feel like mine. They feel like his. His heartache, his rage, his loss.
I want to scream, but I don’t. I want to break, but I don’t. Instead, I just sit there, shivering in the silence, feeling the walls of my world closing in.
How could he do this? How could he make me feel so alive, so real, only to rip it all away like it meant nothing?
And yet, somehow, the pain of it all is familiar. It’s a pain I’ve lived with before. A pain that lingers in the quiet spaces of my soul. I just never thought it would come from him.
The steam is so thick now that it’s hard to see, but all I can think about is Ashton, his presence, his touch, and the way it felt like home. Now, it’s just a memory I can’t reach, and no amount of hot water will wash it away.
I finally stand up, my legs shaky, my body weak.
I reach out to turn off the water, but my hand lingers for a moment, fingers just grazing the faucet, as if I’m waiting for something.
Waiting for something to change. Waiting for him to come back and tell me it was all just a mistake. But I know better. I know it’s over.
I just don’t know how to let go.