Letter Twenty-Eight #4
“Don’t do this,” you begged. “Don’t shut down over three little words.”
I hugged your sweater to my body, curling into it, needing to hold myself together. Fat tears dripped from my chin, soaking into the thick fabric.
That’s when I saw it.
The blood.
A thin smear of red staining the inside of my thigh: proof of what I’d done.
Proof I’d given you something sacred. Something that would always belong to you—and you alone.
It should’ve felt meaningful. But all I could think was: This is how it’ll end, too.
When he finds out the truth and stops loving you.
I wanted to take it back. Not the moment, Casey—never that. Just the lie that came with it. Just the part where you loved a version of me that didn’t really exist.
Choking on a sob, I tried scrubbing it off my skin. Why did I ever think I could have this without consequences?
“Here, let me do that.” You easily swiped the blood away with your thumb, your tattooed hand shaking against my leg. “Hey.” You were trying to catch my gaze—trying to hold me there, to tug me back—but I wouldn’t look at you. “Elliot.”
I forced myself to speak. “I need to be alone right now.”
A pause. “No.”
My stomach twisted. “Leave.”
“Don’t do this.” You swept the hair from my face, your voice shaking, too, like you were barely holding it together. “Please…just talk to me.”
“I want to be left alone.” I sounded cold, hard, detached. And I hated myself for it.
The silence stretched between us, thick and unbearable. Then the bed shifted, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as you pulled on your clothes. Somehow, that felt even worse. Too cruel. Too final.
As you walked to the door, I almost caved. Almost stopped you. Almost begged you to come back.
You hesitated in the doorway, likely hoping for the same thing. But I stared at the bed, silent.
The door clicked shut. I pulled your cardigan tighter around me. And when I was sure you were gone, I broke.
The next morning, I woke to a dull ache between my legs, my body remembering you instantly, seconds before my mind did. The sting. The fullness. The scrape of your lips. Perfect. I love you.
Instead of feeling different or changed—instead of savoring that dull reminder of our night together—I only felt hollowed out.
Eventually, thirst propelled me downstairs to refill my water bottle.
And you were there—as I feared you would be—unshaven and unkempt, like you’d barely slept, scrubbing a mug by hand. Your body tensed as I passed the island on my way to the fridge. You set the mug aside to brace your hands on the sink.
My stomach rumbled when I opened the door, so I grabbed a yogurt—one loaded with protein. A new purchase by you, made especially for me.
I sat down at the island with it, heart pounding in my throat. “So, listen,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry about last night—”
“You’re sorry?” It had come out strained, stripped bare, angry. “You think that’s what I need from you right now? A sorry?”
I stared at the countertop.
“How about an explanation?” you said. “Let’s start there.”
But there was no way to begin without telling you everything. I nearly choked on the lies while peeling the top off my yogurt.
“You were fine, and then suddenly you weren’t. Why? Because I love you?”
“You don’t love me,” I whispered. “You don’t know what love is.”
“That’s bullshit,” you said, rounding the island, and my heart spiked. “You aren’t broken. You aren’t fucked up. You aren’t bad simply because you snapped once and did something awful as a child. You can let me love you, and it’ll be okay. You’re allowed to have that.”
I shook my head. Because you were wrong. You might’ve been right about a lot of other things, but you were wrong about this. “No.”
You pulled your stool next to mine, so close I could smell the lingering scent of minty soap on your skin.
“Let me love you,” you said, leaning closer. Too close. “You don’t have to say it back—I don’t even expect that. I just…I want you.”
The words had come out soft and rough and they were so, so dangerous. More than I love you, those three words—I want you—had the power to undo me.
“We’re so good together, darling,” you said, voice velvety smooth and full of longing. Your fingers grazed my bare shoulder—light as a breath—before you leaned in and pressed your lips there. A devastating kiss. One I no longer deserved. “I know you felt it.”
I did feel it. That was the problem—good things didn’t belong to me.
“You can lie to me now if you need to,” you murmured, breath trembling against my skin, “but you don’t have to shut me out. We can work through it. Together.”
God, your voice—so deep and careful and raw—ate away at my resolve like it always did.
I wanted to lean into it. Wanted to turn and kiss you. To let my body fall back into yours. To pretend, for a little while longer, I could do this. I could have you despite everything.
But I couldn’t.
Because if I gave in, I’d never find the strength to walk away. And I had to walk away, Casey. It’s not that I didn’t want you. I did. Too much.
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed on the countertop. “I can’t.”
You drew back, fisting your hand on the counter. “Tell me why not.”
“It’s too much.”
“What’s too much?”
“All of it.”
A pause. A sigh. Your leg pressing into mine. “Is this a delayed reaction to the throat thing? Because that was fine, Elliot. Beautiful, even.”
“Beautiful? Don’t call it that.”
“I’ll call it whatever I want.”
“You only did it because you couldn’t tell John the truth. Because you tried to do that first and failed.”
“No. I did it because you needed it.”
“You never would’ve done it otherwise.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. I’ve repeatedly asked you why things didn’t work with Willoughby—”
“You wanted to one-up him. You only did it because he wouldn’t.”
“I did it because, for the first time in nearly three years, you finally showed me something real. Something brutally, devastatingly real. You couldn’t have stopped me doing it.
Is that the problem? Are you embarrassed?
Ashamed? Shocked I still wanted you when Willoughby didn’t?
I’ll say it again: I want”—you pressed your fingers to my chest, right above my heart—“all of you.”
“You only want me—you’re latching so hard onto the idea of us—because you don’t have the courage to let yourself have a relationship with John.”
“No.”
“That’s why this can’t work. I can’t fill that void.”
“It isn’t like that,” you whispered. But I heard the catch in your voice. Like I’d struck a chord.
“It’s exactly like that.”
“Why tell me you’re ready?” you asked, voice breaking on the words. “Why fuck me at all if that’s how you really feel? Just to ruin it?”
I swallowed against the sting behind my eyes, against this horrible nightmare I’d set into motion and couldn’t bring myself to stop. “I thought I could ignore all that other stuff,” I forced out, “but I was wrong.”
“So that’s it,” you said. “After everything you said to me last night.”
The first tears slipped down my cheeks. “That was just…me getting caught up in the moment. It wasn’t what I really wanted.”
“Yeah? Then what did you really want?” you asked in a deep voice that made my stomach clench.
“Not that. Not…” I trailed off, swallowed. “I just wanted it to be simple.” A lie. “About sex.” Another lie. “About…getting it over with.”
“You’re lying,” you said, voice full of devastation. “This is typical you. Taking a good thing and twisting it into something it isn’t.”
I should’ve stopped it right there. Should’ve walked away. Should’ve stopped hurting you.
“I’m not twisting anything.”
“Then why did you cry when I told you I loved you? Why did you fall apart? If it wasn’t what you wanted, why are you crying right now?”
“Because…”
“Because what?”
“It was a mistake. I never should’ve gone that far with you.”
You went completely still. Then, hoarsely, barely above a whisper, you said, “A mistake?”
I let the silence stretch.
I didn’t take it back.
Even worse, I made the mistake of looking at you. You were staring straight ahead, throat working above your t-shirt, your face wet with tears. Still so beautiful, but broken. Because of me.
“Right,” you said, swiping the tears from your cheek. You let out a shaky breath that sounded like a laugh. “I guess I should’ve known better.”
Then, finally, you pushed back your stool and walked away.
February.
If I’d known that gray month would be my last full month at home, I might’ve taken the time to enjoy it more. Instead, I dragged myself through those bitterly cold days in a fog, missing us. Missing you.
There were no coffee dates, no Gossip Girl, no afternoon tea. We hardly crossed paths at all. You stayed in your room, and I stayed in mine. At dinnertime, we emerged, so lifeless and bleary-eyed that Nic asked, “What’s going on with you two? What happened?”
“Oh, you know,” you said flatly, looking down at your plate. “The usual.”
Nic turned to me, met my miserable gaze, and surmised I’d done something. With a weary sigh, he went back to his dinner. No one talked much after that.
Then one day, while Nic was at work, I came downstairs for a snack and stopped short in the hallway.
That voice.
Her tinkling little laugh.
Blood spiking, I stepped into the Garland Room and there she was, sitting next to you on the sofa.
Sienna.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.
Sienna rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you, too, Elliot.”
“Now that you aren’t with Michael anymore, I figured I’d never have to see you again.”
“I’m here to see Casey,” she said smoothly. “We’re still friends, you know.”
“Yeah?” I shot her a fake smile. “Or is he maybe too polite to tell you to fuck off?”
“Wow. Very caustic today, aren’t we?” She paused to consider me. “Hey, just out of curiosity, what brought you over to Michael’s apartment that day?”
Your gaze snapped to mine. “You went by Michael’s? When?”
“Oh, it was weeks ago,” Sienna said. “Before New Year’s, maybe? Does that sound right, Elliot?”
My stomach twisted.
“Before New Year’s,” you repeated slowly. “I thought you went by Tinsley’s?”