52. Chapter 47
What Hurts and What Heals
Evin
C urled up on her bed, as if she could somehow disappear from the world, she lay motionless.
The darkness of her room was welcome, but it didn’t help. It only left her alone with her thoughts. Sergej’s grin. Bas’s blood-streaked face. Milka’s horrified eyes. And the voices, blending into an unbearable hum inside her head.
They all saw it.
Do they already know? And if they find out? Her breath came shorter, her chest tightening. Tears dripped from the bridge of her nose onto her pillow.
She couldn’t take it. Not the looks. Not the unspoken questions. Not Bas.
Before anyone could stop her, she had turned and bolted through the crowd. Her steps were rushed, uncontrolled, her legs feeling detached from her body. She hadn ’t even registered who called after her, who might have followed.
An Uber had been right outside the venue, a silent promise of escape.
She had thrown herself into the back seat, arms wrapped around herself, and muttered her address in a hoarse voice.
The driver had pulled away without asking questions.
The streetlights blurred past, but all she could see was Bas’s face.
His eyes.
He knew now.
She closed her eyes. But even here, in the silence of her room, it caught up with her again.
When she thought of the blood-soaked fabric, of his wounded arm, a sharp pain shot through her own—settling right where he’d been hurt.
The feeling that rose this time wasn’t guilt.
It was rage.
At Sergej, for having the audacity to defend himself like he was innocent.
A knock at her door made her flinch.
“Evin? Can I come in?”
It was her mother.
Go away. She wanted to scream it, but her throat felt too tight. She couldn’t even summon the strength to lie. Instead, after a long pause, she murmured, “Yeah.”
The door opened quietly. Her mother stepped inside, her footsteps careful, almost hesitant. Evin felt the mattress sink as she sat down. For a moment, neither of them spoke. But the silence was heavier than any words.
“I just wanted to check on you,” her mother said at last, her voice soft, full of concern.
Please don't…
Evin clenched her teeth. What am I supposed to say? That I feel like nothing? That I’m terrified people will think it’s my fault? That I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk into school tomorrow?
Her thoughts spun wildly, chaoticall y. Finally, she muttered, “I’m fine.” But the words felt wrong. Hollow.
“Evin,” her mother said gently, “it’s okay if you’re not fine.”
She hesitated, then continued. “I saw you leaving after the incident. Running. I... I don’t know what happened, but I can see that something isn’t right. And I want you to know you can talk to me. About anything.”
Anything.
I wish... I wish it would help.
Evin felt shame settle onto her chest, hot and suffocating.
What if she asks why I didn’t scream louder? Why I didn’t fight harder? What if she thinks it was my fault?
What if she’s right?
Her hands clenched the blanket.
“It was nothing,” she finally forced out, her voice barely above a whisper.
She couldn’t look at her.
How would she even explain something she had buried so deep, no one ever had a chance to see it? Not even the ones who claimed they knew her.
I handled this by myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. And now everything’s ruined—because Milka had to talk. Because Cat had to invite Sergej. Because Bas had to get involved.
Anger boiled up inside her, hot and suffocating.
No one was going to fix this. Not Bas. Not her mother. Not anyone. She’d have to carry it, like always. Forever.
Her mother stayed quiet for a moment, then gently placed a hand on Evin’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to push you,” she said softly. “I know some things are hard. But I want you to know that I’m here. And that there is nothing—nothing—you have to be ashamed of.”
Evin pressed her lips together, tears burning behind her eyes.
Nothing to be ashamed of?
She has no idea.
If she knew...
Her thoughts spiraled, looping through the same images, the same words, ov er and over.
“But... what if it—” Her voice cracked, the words caught in her throat.
What if it was my fault? What if I wasn’t loud enough? What if I wasn’t clear enough?
Her mother didn’t move her hand, only squeezed her shoulder gently.
“It wasn’t your fault, Evin,” she said quietly, as if she had read her thoughts. “No matter what happened, no one has the right to make you believe otherwise. And you don’t have to believe it either.”
The words hit Evin deep, but she couldn’t accept them. Not now. Maybe never. Her mind was a mess, and all she wanted was for her mother to leave.
But a small part of her—a very small part—held on to the warmth in her voice.
She had wanted someone to save her, but the truth was, no one could. That chance was already gone.
She ached for comfort so badly, she would’ve let Dominic hold her if he showed up.
And maybe that was the worst part—how grateful she was, deep down, for what he’d done. Even if she’d never admit it.
Might've done something stupid. Just to feel less alone. Reckless choices weren’t that far off tonight.
Thank god, it wasn’t him sitting beside her now.
“I... I can’t,” Evin whispered at last. “It’s too much.”
She dropped her gaze, unable to meet her mother’s eyes.
What if she judges me?
What if she thinks it was my fault?
“It’s okay,” her mother said. “And you don’t have to do it now. Or tomorrow. But I want you to know you’re not alone. And that you are strong, even if you don’t feel like it right now.”
Evin nodded weakly, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.
“I don’t want to be strong anymore,” she choked out.
Evin’s fingers tingled as she gripped the fabric of her blanket. The tears spilled over now, running down her cheeks, and she let them.
Her mother’s warm hand held her steady in the darkness, an anchor that reminded her that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t completely alone.
__________
Sebastian
T he light was too bright. The sun slipped through a small gap in his thick curtains, landing directly on Bas’s face. He blinked, then immediately shut his eyes again with a quiet groan. His head was pounding, and the stale taste of alcohol still clung to his mouth.
His thoughts were sluggish, wrapped in cotton, but slowly, reality started to creep in. He rolled onto his side, reaching for his phone on the nightstand, and unlocked it. The time flashed on the screen: 2:47 PM.
Fuck.
He sat up abruptly, ignoring the uncomfortable pull in his shoulder. His gaze landed on the half-wilted red roses still lying on the table. What the hell did I do?
He had been out with the guys. The night was a blur—a mix of too much beer, vodka, and a stupid attempt to forget everything.
Sergej, the fight, Evin—it had all hung over him like a dark cloud, and he had hoped the alcohol would drown it out. But now? Now it just felt worse.
He had looked for her after the fight—searched every corner of the damn venue—but she was already gone. And he knew why. She was probably so fucking angry with him, she couldn’t even stand to watch.
They hadn’t spoken since. Not a word.
The guys told him to let it sit for a bit, give her space. They’d noticed too, that she’d left early. Probably pissed, they said. Who could blame her?
Bas hadn’t to ld anyone the real reason behind the fight. Not one word about why he’d snapped. Why he’d lost control.
Dominic had celebrated the whole thing like it was a damn highlight reel—going on and on about the punch, the chaos, the way Sergej hit the floor.
But Ben… and Jonas? They had looked at him differently. Said nothing, but watched him like they knew there was more. Like they were just waiting for the truth to crack through the silence.
Running a hand down his face, he scrolled through his messages. Nothing. No calls, no texts. Evin hadn’t reached out.
Not once.
Since yesterday night, she hadn’t even asked about him.
Ugh! A sharp pang shot through him—a mix of disappointment and something that felt dangerously close to hurt. Why didn’t she check on me? She saw me. She knows how it ended.
He shook his head, forcing himself to get up. Fuck! A stabbing pain shot through his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts for a second. Drunk and reckless, he must’ve overstrained it yesterday.
Man, she’s worse off than I am. This isn’t about me. Stop acting like a damn kid. Stop whining about your shoulder.
Bas pulled a clean T-shirt over his head, ignoring the wrinkled button-down from last night still lying on the floor. Then, grabbing his phone, he typed out a message:
Bas
Hey. I’m so sorry it took me this long to text.
Last night was too much, and I screwed up.
I wanted to see you this morning, but I just... couldn’t get it together.
Can we talk?
He hit send, staring at the screen for a moment before dropping back onto the bed. Time dragged, thick and slow like honey, as he waited. But his phone stayed silent.
Bas
I’ll make it right.
I promise.
Still, nothing.
__________
Evin
T he weight of her grip pressed into the windowsill as she stared outside, as if anchoring herself to something solid. The sun streamed warmly through the curtains, yet its warmth never quite reached her.
She had been checking her phone for hours. Nothing. Not even a short message.
Of course not. What did you expect?
She pulled away from the window, climbed back into bed, and tugged the blanket over her knees. Her phone sat on the nightstand, silent, untouched.
The past few hours had felt like one endless nightmare. Sergej, the fight, the stares. And Bas—with blood on his shirt, with those eyes that knew everything about her now. She didn’t want to think about it, but the images kept coming back.
Why hasn’t he texted me?
The thought was so quiet she almost missed it, but it was there. She bit her lip.
Be cause he changed his mind. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want me. Why would he?
Her phone vibrated. A message.
Her heart stopped for a second, but as she read the words, everything inside her tightened.
Evin read it twice. Then a third time.
Last night was too much. He wanted to see you this morning, but couldn't get it together?
She threw the phone onto the mattress and buried her face in her hands.
He wanted to. But he didn’t. Because he changed his mind. Because I’m damaged goods now.
The tears didn’t come. They had already dried up, like a riverbed left to crack in the sun.
All that was left was the sharp, cold blade of anger.
She reached for her phone, opened the message, and started typing. Her fingers trembled, but she hit "Send" before she could change her mind:
Evin
No problem. I’m on my way to training.
Nobody needed to meet up with her out of pity.
She dropped the phone, lay back down, and stared at the ceiling.
Evin
Let's just forget get about it.
Now he can finally be done with me.
__________
Evin shoved open the heavy door of the ballet studio, letting it slam shut behind her with a loud bang.
The room was silent—so quiet that her own breath echoed against the empty walls. The m irrors reflected her back at herself, an exact image, yet she barely recognized the girl in the glass.
She dropped her bag onto the floor, her hands trembling slightly as she shoved her phone inside. She hadn’t looked at it since texting Bas.
The words she had sent still echoed in her mind. No problem. Let’s just forget about it.
But she knew she had lied. It was a problem.
And she had no idea how to deal with it.
She pulled her ballet shoes from her bag, sat down, and slipped them on, each movement mechanical, almost trance-like. The leather sole felt familiar, comforting, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside her.
A thought struck her, sharp and sudden.
Milka.
Her best friend. The one who had betrayed her. The one who had interfered even though she knew how much Evin needed to keep her secrets buried.
Anger curled inside her like a shadow.
You had no right. None of you did.
Evin stood, walked to the center of the room, and pressed play on the speaker.
The piano melody filled the studio—melancholic, familiar. But it didn’t feel the same.
Before, she could lose herself in dance. The movements had given her structure, quieted her mind.
Today was different.
She lifted her arms, took first position. Her fingers tingled. With a deep breath, she launched into the choreography she had practiced countless times before.
Arabesque, turn, jump—
Every move was precise, but it felt wrong, like her body and mind were no longer in sync.
Why can’t everyone be like Ben?
The thought came out of nowhere, striking her like a slap .
Ben, the one who never asked, never pushed.
Ben, who had simply been there.
He had never tried to fix her, never made grand gestures.
He had just existed alongside her chaos.
She spun into a pirouette, the force behind it almost angry. When she landed, she stumbled.
Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud, her hands pressing into the wood.
Silence.
Only her breathing and the faint scratch of her shoes against the floor remained.
"Damn it," she muttered, barely more than a whisper.
She looked up at the mirror, caught her own reflection.
And there it was. Not just anger at Milka. Not just disappointment in Bas.
Anger at herself.
I pulled all of them into my mess. This is my fault.
She sat back, hugging her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.
Her eyes drifted to her bag, where her phone peeked out of the side pocket.
Just the thought of Bas’s message made her heart tighten.
But the idea of replying made it hard to breathe.
After a long moment, she reached for her phone anyway, her fingers trembling slightly.
She scrolled through her contacts.
Paused.
Then stopped at Jonas’s name.
Her lips pressed into a tight line before she typed:
Evin
Hey. What are you up to? I need to talk.
She hit "Send" and let the phone fall from her hands.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes .
The music kept playing, but she barely heard it.
The silence of the room wrapped around her, but it couldn’t quiet the voice in her head.
He’ll answer. Jonas will answer. And then?
What am I even going to say? That I’m sad? That I’m disappointed? Or that I'm lost?
When scrolling through her contacts, she had hesitated at Ben’s name.
But it hadn’t felt right.
With Jonas, though… That old, familiar sense of safety was still there.
And right now, she needed that, someone who didn’t judge.
Evin let her head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
The ballet studio suddenly felt too big, too empty, as if the room itself could swallow her whole.
But she knew she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Here, surrounded by music and mirrors, she could pretend—just for a moment—that she was still in control.