In The Between

✧･Chapter 24 Talk To Me

I told myself to give her time, to give her space.

That she would come around eventually... she always does. That she'd show up at my door or send a message that starts too casually, like nothing ever happened, like we could just slip back into whatever this is between us without actually naming it.

That's how it's always worked. Except... it hasn't. Not this time.

I could pretend I don't know why something feels different now - why the silence has stretched longer than it ever has before, why it feels heavier, more final - but that would be a lie.

I know exactly why. There are too many reasons to count, if I'm being honest.

I waited too long. I let things sit when I should've said something. I hurt her... again, and again, and again, until maybe she finally decided she was done being the one to reach first.

Done chasing, done hoping I'd meet her halfway. And the worst part?

Claire never once asked me to choose her. She never made demands, never pushed, never gave me an ultimatum. She just... stayed. Patient and steady. There, in a way I learned to take for granted.

Until she wasn't.

I swallow, my throat tight as I shift my weight where I stand outside the venue, staring up at the building like it might somehow decide this for me.

It's beautiful.

Of course it is. Helena doesn't do anything halfway, and Claire... God, Claire would've made sure every detail was perfect. I can already see the warm glow spilling from the windows, silhouettes moving inside, the soft flicker of something elegant and carefully planned.

She's in there, and the thought lands heavy in my chest. She's in there, moving through the room like she belongs, because she does, smiling at people, talking, laughing like she hasn't spent the last week avoiding me.

Like she didn't leave before I woke up, like none of it mattered.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, but it doesn't do much. The nerves are still there, sharp and restless under my skin, my body buzzing with the kind of anxiety I can't talk myself out of.

Because she has every reason to tell me to leave. To tell me to fuck off. To tell me she's done. And the worst part is... I wouldn't even blame her.

I barely want anything to do with myself anymore.

My hands move almost automatically, smoothing down the fabric of my dress again even though it doesn't need it.

Red, and I don't usually wear red. It felt like too much when I first pulled it out, too bold and too noticeable, but I didn't put it back.

It fits close without being tight, the material soft as it falls down my body, catching the light just enough to stand out without looking like I'm trying too hard.

The neckline dips just slightly, subtle but intentional, and the slit along my leg makes it easier to move, even if it makes me feel a little more exposed than I'm used to.

Like I can't hide.

My hair is down, loose waves falling over my shoulders in a way that took more effort than I want to admit. I almost tied it back three separate times before leaving, but something in me, something stubborn, decided against it.

If I'm going to do this, I'm not going to half-ass it. Even if I have no idea what this actually is.

I glance down at my hands for a second, flexing my fingers like that might shake off some of the tension, then let out a quiet breath.

"You can do this," I mutter under my breath, though I don't fully believe it. Because walking into this building doesn't just mean facing a room full of people.

It means facing her, and I don't know if she'll look at me the same way. I don't know if she'll look at me at all.

Another breath, and then I square my shoulders, forcing my feet to move before I can change my mind. One step, then another.

By the time I reach the doors, it's too late to turn around without looking ridiculous. A man stationed at the entrance smiles as soon as he sees me, already reaching to pull one of the doors open.

"You look beautiful, ma'am," he says easily, stepping aside and gesturing for me to go in. "Check-in table's just ahead. Enjoy the event."

The compliment catches me off guard just enough that I hesitate for half a second before nodding. "Thank you," I reply quietly.

And then I'm moving again, letting my feet carry me inside before I can second guess any of it. I spot the check-in table easily, just like he said, and make my way over, smoothing my hands down my dress again out of habit more than anything.

"Hi," I say, offering a small smile. "Mae Rivera."

The woman behind the table returns it, friendly and efficient as she glances down at the clipboard in front of her. Her finger trails down the page for a moment before she nods.

"Perfect, yes - here you are." She looks back up at me, her smile widening slightly. "We're so glad you could make it. You can head straight through those double doors. There's food, an open bar, and the band will be playing all night."

"Thank you," I say again, softer this time.

I step away before she can say anything else, my gaze lifting toward the large double doors just ahead.

This is it.

I slow as I get closer, my chest tightening slightly with each step. The music is clearer now, something smooth and steady, blending into the low murmur of conversation on the other side.

She's in there, and for a second, I consider stopping. Just... standing here, taking a minute.

Or five.

Or leaving.

Instead, I walk through the open doors and everything hits me all at once.

The room is bigger than I expected - filled with people, movement, light reflecting off glasses and polished floors.

Conversations overlap, laughter rises and falls, and somewhere near the back, the band plays something soft and rhythmic that threads through everything else.

My eyes move instinctively, scanning the space before I can stop myself, looking for her. I don't even try to pretend I'm not, but I don't see her, not immediately.

And something in my chest twists at that, equal parts relief and disappointment.

I barely have time to sit in it before I spot June across the room.

She's standing beside Helena, already looking in my direction like she knew I'd be here before I even walked in.

She smiles the second our eyes meet, lifting her hand in a small wave before reaching out to touch Helena's arm, signing something quickly.

Helena turns. Her gaze lands on me almost immediately like sharp and knowing. It lingers for half a second, just long enough to say I see you - before she turns back to the conversation in front of her like nothing happened.

June, on the other hand, doesn't hesitate. She starts toward me, weaving easily through the crowd, her expression warm and open in a way that makes something in my chest loosen just a little.

Hey you! Wow, you look amazing!

Her hands move quickly, her smile wide as she reaches me, taking my hand without hesitation and giving it a gentle squeeze.

I huff out a quiet breath, some of the tension easing despite myself.

Thank you, I sign back, simple, because anything more feels like too much right now.

June doesn't let go right away. She studies me for a second and I can tell she's reading everything I'm not saying.

Have you seen her yet?

The question lands exactly where it hurts. I shake my head, my chest tightening as I glance briefly past her, like Claire might just appear if I look hard enough.

No, I sign, the movement slower this time. I hesitate, then add, What if she doesn't want me here?

June's expression softens immediately. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze steady in that way that always makes it impossible to hide.

Then at least you tried.

I press my lips together, my teeth catching on the inside of my lip as I nod faintly.

Because she's right, but it doesn't make it any easier.

June watches me for another second, like she's making sure I'm not about to bolt, before her attention shifts.

Her eyes move past me, scanning the room, searching.

Then she lifts her hand, pointing somewhere across the room.

She's over there, she signs, her movements a little slower now, more deliberate. People have been coming up to her all night. She hasn't taken a break, she could probably use saving.

I follow the direction of June's hand, and everything in me... stops. My breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

Even from behind, I know it's her, I would know her anywhere. But it's not just that... it's everything.

She's wearing black. The dress fits her like it was made for her, smooth and structured through her waist before softening just slightly as it falls, the fabric catching the light in a way that makes every movement noticeable without being loud about it.

Her back is exposed, the top half, and for a second that's all I can focus on. The clean line of her spine, and the subtle shift of muscle as she moves. The way her skin catches the warm glow of the lights like something I'm not supposed to be looking at for too long.

Her hair is up, pinned in a way that looks effortless but isn't, strands left loose on purpose, falling just enough to soften it.

A few pieces brush along the back of her neck, and I feel the urge to reach out and move them, like my body remembers something my brain hasn't caught up to yet.

She's talking to someone, to a man, and I barely register him, because then she laughs.

And it hits me full force. Her head tilts back slightly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction, and there's something so easy about it, something natural that it knocks the air out of my lungs all over again.

My chest tightens painfully, because I know that version of her. I know what it looks like when she's performing, when she's slipping into something polished and untouchable, something that keeps everyone at just enough distance.

And still... she's the most beautiful thing in the room. My gaze drops for half a second, catching the way her hand lifts as she talks, the subtle brush of her fingers against the man's arm as she laughs again, and something sharp twists low in my stomach.

I shouldn't feel that. I don't get to feel that. Not after everything, but it's there anyway.

I swallow hard, my throat dry, my heart pounding so loud I'm half convinced June can hear it standing next to me-even though I know she can't.

Before I can think and before I can back out, I feel her hands at my back, a gentle push forward. I turn slightly, and she's already looking at me with that small, knowing smile.

Go, she signs. Stop overthinking it.

Then, with a teasing lift of her brow, or drooling.

Heat rushes to my face, and I shake my head at her, but I don't argue. I can't. Because if I stop now, I won't go at all, so I move.

At first, it feels automatic, like my body is acting on its own. I weave through the crowd, barely noticing the people around me, the conversations, the music. Everything fades into the background the closer I get to her.

The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears, faster with every step, louder the closer I get. I tell myself I should slow down, give her space, wait for a better moment, but I don't.

I stop only when I'm right behind her, close enough to notice everything. The faint scent of her perfume. The way the fabric of her dress curves along her back. The small, steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes.

"You're holding steady," she says, her voice smooth and easy, directed at the man in front of her and he smiles at her, relaxed, clearly comfortable.

Before I can think better of it, my hand lifts and my fingers brush lightly against the back of her shoulder. It's barely a touch, but I feel the effect immediately.

The slight stillness in her body, the soft catch of her breath. The man looks at me then, something flickering across his face like confusion or maybe annoyance, but I don't care. I'm not here for him.

She turns, slowly, and the second her eyes meet mine, everything else disappears.

The surprise hits first, sharp and unmistakable.

Then confusion, her brows pulling together slightly as she takes me in, like she's trying to decide if I'm actually standing here.

And then something else settles in her expression, something quieter and deeper.

Something I can't quite name, but I feel it all the same.

Her hair is pinned up, loose strands framing her face like it was done on purpose, her neck exposed in a way that makes my chest tighten. The black dress fits her perfectly, making it impossible to look away.

She looks composed, untouchable, and for a second, I almost believe she is. But then her eyes stay on mine just a second too long, and I know she's not. I don't give her time to recover, to step back, to build whatever wall she's already reaching for.

"Dance with me?" I ask, my voice is quieter than everything around us, but steady.

I hold my hand out and I don't step away.

She looks at my hand like it's something dangerous, and for a second, I think she's going to refuse.

Her gaze flicks down - quick, almost involuntary - taking in the space between us, my hand, the fact that I'm standing here at all.

Then it comes back to my face, and whatever she was about to say shifts before it ever reaches her lips.

There's a crack in her composure now, small and barely there, but I see it.

"Mae..." She starts, quieter than before, like my name slipped out before she could stop it. There's a warning in it, but it doesn't matter.

I don't move, I don't drop my hand. "Just one dance," I say, softer this time, but no less certain. "You can walk away after. I won't stop you."

That does something. I see it in the way her jaw tightens slightly, in the way her eyes search mine like she's trying to find the catch, the angle, the version of this where she doesn't get hurt.

But there isn't one. There's just me, standing here.

The man beside her clears his throat awkwardly, glancing between us, but Claire doesn't even look at him anymore. Whatever polite conversation she was holding together a second ago is gone, slipping through her fingers like it never mattered in the first place.

Her attention is entirely on me, and then finally, she exhales. It's subtle, but it's there. Like she's letting something go.

"You always do this," she murmurs, almost to herself, but I catch it. Her eyes soften just a fraction, something familiar slipping through the cracks of everything she's been trying to hold up. "You show up and don't give me a way out."

Her lips part like she's about to say something else, something bigger, but instead, she looks down at my hand again.

And this time, she takes it. Her fingers slide into mine, warm and steady despite everything else, and the second she does, something in my chest loosens so fast it almost hurts.

The room doesn't disappear. The music doesn't fade. People are still watching, still moving, still talking.

But none of it matters, because she didn't walk away.

Claire glances briefly at the man she'd been speaking to, offering him a polite, apologetic smile that feels automatic, practiced. "Excuse me," she says smoothly, like this is just another part of the night, another interaction she can control.

But her hand tightens in mine just slightly.

And I know better.

I don't say anything else as I guide her toward the dance floor. I don't trust my voice not to give me away, not when everything in me is still bracing for the moment she changes her mind.

When we step into the low glow of the lights, surrounded by slow-moving couples and soft music, she turns to face me fully, and for the first time tonight, there's no audience in her expression.

For a second, we just stand there, facing each other.

Then I let go of her hand.

I see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but before it can turn into distance, I step closer, lifting my arms and letting them settle around the back of her neck. Not rushed, not unsure.

Her breath catches and she doesn't move right away. Like she's re-calibrating. Like this version of me, this version of us, isn't what she expected when she turned around tonight.

Then, slowly, her hands find my hips. Light at first, careful, and they don't leave. We start to move, almost without thinking about it, falling into a rhythm that feels too familiar for how long we've been apart.

For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. It's just the music. The warmth of her hands. The way my heart won't slow down.

"I woke up," I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean it to be, "and you weren't there."

The words settle between us and I feel her hands still, just slightly. Claire's head tilts like she's about to respond, lips parting, breath pulling in, but nothing comes out.

And I nod, a small, almost a sad nod. "I know."

Because I do. I know why she left.

We keep swaying. Her grip on my hips shifts, just a little firmer now, like she's grounding herself in something she doesn't quite trust.

"You look..." she starts, then stops, like even that feels too dangerous. Too close to something real.

I huff out the smallest breath of a laugh. "You can say it."

Her eyes flick up to mine. "I was going to."

"Sure you were."

That almost pulls a smile out of her. Almost.

Silence settles again, but it's different now, thicker. Full of everything we're not saying. Claire's gaze drifts over my face like she's trying to memorize it, or maybe confirm that I'm actually here.

"Why are you here, Mae?" She asks finally.

I swallow, my arms tightening slightly around her neck without thinking. "Because I couldn't stay away," I answer at first, but even I can hear that it's not enough. Not for her, not for this.

Her expression shifts, something guarded slipping back into place. "That's not an answer."

She's right, and I take a breath, steadying myself, even as my heart starts pounding all over again.

"Because I needed to see you," I try again. "Because-"

"No," she cuts in, not harsh, but firm. Her hands press just slightly into my hips, like she's holding me there, keeping me from slipping past the truth. "Why are you really here?"

My throat tightens. For a second, I think about deflecting. About softening it. About giving her something easier to hold. But I didn't come here to be careful.

"I broke up with him."

The words land heavier than anything else tonight and Claire freezes.

Not completely, but enough that I feel it in the way her hands go still, in the way her eyes widen just a fraction before she schools her expression too late.

"You what?" She asks, quieter now.

"I broke up with him," I repeat, my voice steadier this time, even if everything inside me isn't.

She searches my face like she's waiting for the catch. The joke. The part where I say it doesn't mean anything.

But I don't.

"When?" She asks.

"The same day," I say softly. "The same day you left before I woke up."

That lands even harder. I see it... clear as anything, the way it hits her, the way something cracks through all that composure she's been holding onto all night.

Her mouth opens slightly, like she's about to say something - anything - but again, nothing comes out.

So I keep going. Because if I stop now, I won't say it at all.

"I woke up, and you were gone," I say, my voice quieter now, but heavier. "And I realized I couldn't keep pretending anymore. Not with him. Not with you. Not with myself."

Her grip on me tightens, just a little.

"I ended it that morning," I add. "I just... didn't come after you."

There's no defense in it. No excuse, just the truth.

We keep moving, slow and unsteady now, like the rhythm is the only thing keeping either of us upright.

Claire finally exhales, a shaky thing she can't quite hide.

"You didn't come after me," she repeats, like she's trying to understand it, or maybe forgive it.

"I know."

Her eyes lift to mine again, and there's something raw in them now. Something unguarded in a way I don't think I've ever seen from her.

"Why?" She asks.

I hold her gaze, my arms still around her, my heart still trying to claw its way out of my chest.

I don't let go of her. I can't. My arms are still looped around her neck, like if I move, everything will fall apart.

"I wanted to give you space," I say, my voice shaking despite me trying to hold it steady.

"You left without saying goodbye. You left a blank note like you couldn't even say the words to me. "

Her breath catches at that.

I feel it in her before I see it, her posture tightening, her composure slipping. Her eyes start to shine, just slightly, like she's blinking too slowly to hide it. Claire lets out a small, broken laugh at that. It doesn't sound like humor. It sounds like exhaustion finally snapping.

"So you decided," she says, voice low but sharper now, "after I finally stop waiting for you to treat me like I matter - after I finally give up on that - you decide to break up with your boyfriend? After what? After I fucked you again?"

I flinch, just slightly and her grip on my hips tightens for a second, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

"Or was that just..." she continues, swallowing hard, "what? A way to prove something to me?"

"No," I say quickly, but it's too fast, too desperate.

That's what makes her go still. Claire's eyes close for a second like she's trying to hold herself together by force alone. When she opens them again, they're glassy now. Not falling yet, but close.

"I left," she says quietly, "because I couldn't do it anymore."

Her voice breaks just a fraction on the last word and my chest tightens so hard it hurts.

"I left because I'm-" She stops, shakes her head like she refuses to finish it. Like the rest of the sentence is something she can't afford to say out loud.

My voice drops to almost nothing. "You're what?"

Her jaw trembles, and when she finally speaks, it's so quiet I almost don't hear it over the music.

"I'm tired of loving somebody that's not mine."

The words don't land like a confession, they land like a loss. Like something is already gone.

Her hands slide off my hips, slow at first, like she's trying to convince herself of something. Then fully, completely.

The absence of her touch is immediate. I don't even realize I'm reaching for her again until she steps back.

"Wait- Claire," I say, my voice cracking open. "Don't-"

But she's already shaking her head, stepping out of my space like it physically hurts to stay in it.

"No," she cuts in, sharper now, but it's not anger. It's panic. "No, Mae- I can't. I can't do this right now."

Her eyes flick around the room, like she's suddenly aware of everything else again - the people, the lights, the music, the fact that they're all still moving while she's falling apart right in front of them.

"I can't do this here," she says, voice breaking again. "Not here. Not like this."

I reach for her wrist without thinking. "Just... talk to me. Please."

The second my fingers touch her, she freezes, then she pulls back so fast it's like my hand burned her. Her breathing turns uneven.

And then she steps away again, harder this time, faster.

"I can't," she repeats, but it's thinner now. Frayed at the edges. "I can't, I can't-"

And then she turns, not slowly. Like something inside her just snaps.

She moves through the crowd fast, shoulders brushing past people who don't even realize what's happening, her heels striking the floor in sharp, uneven steps that turn into something almost like running.

"Claire!" I call after her, but it gets swallowed immediately by the room. I push forward instinctively, but she's already gone too far, disappearing between bodies, through lights, toward the exit.

And then I see it. The doors are swinging open.

And she's gone.

Just like that.