VOLUME I ACT I CHAPTER NINE Collateral Truths (Part Three)
VOLUME I
ACT I
CHAPTER NINE
Collateral Truths
(Part Three)
The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional honk echoing from the street below. I sat curled in the same corner of the couch where I had read Kieran’s last message the night before.
Don’t wait in limbo. Live.
The words felt like a tightrope. He hadn’t said goodbye. But he hadn’t asked me to hold on, either. I was somewhere between grieving and hoping, and that middle ground was the most dangerous of all.
I opened my laptop and stared at a blank document. I had thought, once, that I could write about our story one day. Fictionalize it. Romanticize it. But now, the truth bled too close to the surface. There was no metaphor strong enough to make this feel less raw.
Still, I typed:
She loved him before he ever knew she existed. And maybe that was the truest kind of love, the kind that asks for nothing, builds itself in silence, and only wants to stay close. But love, when mixed with deception, turns from honey to acid. And now, she had to drink it all.
I stared at the line until the blinking cursor made my eyes ache. Then I deleted the whole paragraph. Maybe I wasn’t ready to write this. Maybe the truth still felt too dangerous.
My phone buzzed. Ava.
Ava: You home? I’m outside with wine and Oreos. Don’t make me knock.
I sighed, wiped my face, and went to open the door.
She walked in like a whirlwind, messy bun, oversized hoodie, and two bags in her hands.
“God, you look like you just walked out of a sad indie movie,” she said, dropping the wine on the coffee table. “We need to talk. Or cry. Or scream. Or all three.”
We settled into the couch, and she handed me a glass of red wine.
“He messaged me last night,” I said after a few sips.
“K?”
I nodded. “Told me not to wait in limbo. Said he doesn’t know how to be with me yet.”
Ava took a long sip, then nodded. “Okay. So... what are you going to do?”
I looked around the room, my eyes landing on a picture of us on the bookshelf. Kieran had his arm around me, both of us grinning under a sunset sky.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I want to fight. I want to show him I’m still worth choosing. But I also don’t want to suffocate him.”
Ava leaned over and took my hand. “Then do both. Live your life. Be present. But don’t erase the space where he belongs. If he comes back, let him find you whole.”
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. But it was what I needed.
Two weeks passed.
I started running again. I took a short freelance editing job. I joined Ava for Thursday trivia nights at the bar down the street. I cleaned the apartment and took down the framed photo.
But I didn’t throw it away.
Every night, I checked my phone. Not obsessively. Just once before bed. And every night, it was quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
Kieran: My mom said you were honest. Even when it broke you. Thank you.
Then:
Kieran: I saw the journal. The one from the park. You’re not who I thought you were, Alina. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Kieran: Are you home?
I stared at the message, heart pounding.
Me: Yes.
Three minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, he was standing there. Tired. Hesitant. But not gone.
He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward and pulled me into his arms.
And in that embrace, I didn’t feel forgiven. Not yet. But I felt chosen.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.
We didn’t talk much that night. Instead, we just lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other. The silence wasn’t hostile, just fragile. As if words could tip the balance.
Sometime after midnight, I felt the bed shift.
Kieran rolled over, his hand grazing mine in the dark. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. The quiet between us was beginning to feel more like a pause than an ending.
In the early hours, just before the sun began its climb, he whispered, “I don’t know how to be angry at you and still miss you this much.”
I turned, eyes brimming. “Then don’t choose one. Be both. I can take it.”
He didn’t reply.
But his fingers curled around mine.
And I held on.
That morning, I found a message scribbled on a napkin by the coffee maker:
"Healing is a process, not a performance. I’m not okay yet. But I’m trying." K
I folded it gently and tucked it into my journal.
