3. Alex

Chapter three

Alex

D aphne Burton.

Holy fuck.

I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m obsessed. Of course I am.

It’s funny because my girlfriend has done everything she can to become the type of woman men find the most beautiful. Her lips hold more filler than a duck pond. She’s a natural brunette, but she goes to the salon every six weeks to turn it blonde. And, based on how hard and high her breasts are, I’m pretty sure her cup size is not a natural C. Still, Celeste is beautiful, and she helped me when I needed it the most.

After Daphne had left.

Celeste’s attention attracted a more positive light to me. If the perfect Celeste dared to give the once geeky man-boy attention, that must mean he’s actually worth more than his bank account. Soon, I stopped playing Call of Duty , ditched the steak knife, and learned how to toss the good ole pigskin. Which led to a toned physique and, of course, I had to get rid of my dorky glasses. Daphne never found them dorky, nor anything about me, but Celeste did. I desperately sought validation for my own happiness.

From her loyalty, I give her mine. Like when my girlfriend asks that I work on developing a six-pack, I go to the gym and try. I’m not very good because, to be honest, I hate working out, but I at least try.

All in all, I’m loyal. Still depressed but loyal. For the last several years, I’ve never strayed from Celeste, but Daphne is a temptress I’m having a hard time resisting.

Guilt overcomes me as I grip onto my thickening cock. Only, I’m not thinking about my girlfriend. Instead, I’m imagining Daphne’s kiss-swollen lips wrapped around it.

With each shallow breath I take, her image intensifies in my mind. My heart pounds against my chest while her memory fuels my desire. I tighten my grip on myself, imagining the feel of Daphne’s nimble fingers on me. The way her hazel eyes would look up at me, full of innocence yet consumed with passion.

I remember how her chestnut hair fell across her forehead, the ends curling at her cheeks while she slept on my chest. We were only kids then, but I still felt a connection to her. Now, I can only imagine how that hair would feel between my fingers as I tugged her closer to me. We’re adults, and she grew with me. Does she feel the same longing that stirs my core ?

“Daphne,” I moan as I lie face up, staring at the ceiling. The name sounds so right on my lips, so natural, like it’s always belonged there.

Yet it also feels wrong. To do this while thinking about a woman who isn’t Celeste feels like a betrayal. But even as I stroke myself to completion, all I can think about is Daphne. The idea of being inside of her, feeling the tight heat of her body around me. The sound of her soft gasps and moans in response to each thrust. Fuck, I can’t stop. I want to map her curves with the palms of my hands. Breathe in her scent and bathe it against my skin.

Going from my shaft to my balls, I squeeze my cock while imagining it’s Daphne’s warm pussy. She’s so fucking perfect.

I want her.

My orgasm hits me hard and unexpected, like a punch to the gut. Every nerve in my body sings and then slowly stills as I cum all over my abs.

It’s overwhelming and intense, so unlike anything I’ve ever felt with Celeste. There’s just no denying it anymore. The second Daphne returned to my life, my feelings for her returned tenfold. If things continue this way, there will be no way to salvage what once existed between me and Celeste .

Unfortunately, I’m a mess inside my head because, even after release, Daphne continues to haunt me while guilt settles in like a cruel aftertaste.

I have to stop this. Celeste is my girlfriend. She deserves all of my attention, even in my thoughts. For the sake of our relationship, I’ll give it my all.

No more Daphne Burton. Even if it kills me inside. It’s fitting, really. She saved me physically, but I can’t accept her help to save me emotionally.

Cum drying on my stomach, I remember the first time I saw her.

Dad is pissing me off. It’s Saturday morning, and all I want to do is play video games. Don’t I deserve it? I get good grades, am never tardy to class—as the bullies in my school like to point out—and I’ve already done all my homework last night. So what if I want to relax for a few hours with online friends. I’m just a kid.

Sometimes, being a Whitmore feels like a punishment. Victoria certainly thinks so. Mom pushes her to be the First Chair at the harp, but I don’t even think Vic likes music. A few weeks ago, she confided in me that she’s always dreamed of dancing, but Mom won’t let her because our cousin is already attending Julliard. Apparently, we have to stretch out our talents so our family covers them all. Victoria’s is music. Our extended family decided before she was even born. Mine is public relations. Ironic, considering I’m a total social outcast .

Even worse than having my family reminding me how I’m letting them down is this darkness. It covers me like a metaphorical coffin, threatening to bury me in the ground. On the worst days, I’m already trapped among the dirt and the worms. Dying. I stretch my fingers and toes, but I’m still stuck.

If I could, I’d claw my way out of my body and float so far away that Alexandru Whitmore would only be a distant memory. Because all this Alexandru Whitmore feels is never-ending pain.

No one believes me. Well, I mean, I haven’t told them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know. There’s no way they don’t. How could they not see the monster tearing at my soul? How can they not see the bruises lying underneath my skin, invisible but oh-so-prettily prominent at the same time? It’s clawing at my skin as it buries me in the ground.

Victoria shuffles beside me, complaining about some new girl in her class. Usually, I’d listen, but today, my mind’s elsewhere. We’re close, Vic and I. We understand each other’s burdens. She gets why I hate meeting new people, and I get why she hates the harp. We’re each other’s rocks in a world of quicksand. Yet we’re both drowning, just in different ways. She, at least, has friends.

As twilight deepens, mirroring my despair, a familiar dread creeps over me as we approach the Whitmore Institute—our family’s gilded cage. The encroaching darkness seems to seep into my soul, making it difficult to focus on anything but the looming dread ahead.

My parents insist I escort Victoria to her lessons. Apparently, I’m the only one who can prevent her great escape from the harp. It’s a win-win for them, I suppose. They get me out of my room, and they get her to practice. But this isn’t a walk in the park. Too bad I fester no matter where I am. At least if I were in my room, I wouldn’t get the familiar pit-in-the-stomach sensation that tightens its grip as I catch sight of them—my personal hell’s welcoming committee.

“Go ahead inside, Vic,” I mutter, my voice a weak facsimile of casual indifference that I don’t feel. “I’ll be there in a few.”

“Okay!” She bounces away, oblivious to the storm cloud hovering over her brother. She’s the only person in my life who tolerates my existence. For everyone else, it’s like having me around them is a poison.

I don’t exactly blame them. I’m a poison for myself too.

I hate how we live right in town, just how I hate how our institute is downtown too. Because that means it’s the number-one hangout spot for kids my age.

Including the bullies.

Knowing that I can’t avoid them, I lower my eyes and shuffle my feet towards the door. Maybe if I hunch, they won’t bother me today .

I’m quickly proven wrong when one bully, named Michael, calls out, “Hey, Alex!” His voice drips with a mockery as sharp as shards of glass piercing my skin. I turn, bracing myself for the barrage. Even though they’re just words, they’re barbed and poisonous, designed to tear open existing wounds.

“Going to a music studio, huh?” another sneers. “What instrument do you play? Actually, let me guess. The flute.” His friends explode into raucous laughter. I don’t find it funny. Lots of guys play instruments, flutes included. Doesn’t make them any less of a man.

“Ha ha,” I deadpan.

“Aww, look at him, thinking he’s all smart with those stupid glasses,” another chides. A finger pokes at my chest, pushing me back a step. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it’s like trying to push down a rock.

“Like anyone would date this loser,” one jeers, and the others join in with nods and snickers. “Boy, girl, or dog… Doesn’t matter. Who’d want this greasy-haired, four-eyed freak?”

My breath catches, heart pounding so hard it might burst from my ribcage. Being alone forever is my biggest fear. If my parents don’t love me and I don’t connect with peers, how will I ever find friendship outside of my sister? I force a shaky exhale, but it only emerges as a stuttering gasp. “Th-that’s enough,” I stammer, hating the tremor in my voice. When I’m nervous, I stutter. Always have.

“D-d-d-did you hear th-that?” one mocks, imitating my stutter with exaggerated cruelty. “He can’t even speak without tripping over his own tongue!”

My eyes sting. Fuck. If I cry now, I’ll just be handing them a weapon. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force back the tears. I want to scream, to let loose the rage and self-hatred that are consuming me. Maybe if they saw the fire in my eyes, they’d back off. But I’m trapped. Showing weakness will only make them taunt me harder.

Trying to hold myself together, I end up losing my footing, with my eyes still tightly closed. My knees crack against the sidewalk, causing me to cry out in pain. The kids around me only laugh. I’d give anything to just disappear. I’d even rather live life invisible than be seen.

“Leave him alone,” a determined feminine voice cuts in, but I barely register her. I’m sinking, drowning in the dirt within my coffin, both theirs and mine.

“Whatever,” one bully finally grunts, and with a last shove that sends me careening off balance, they saunter away, leaving behind a silence that’s somehow louder than their taunts.

Alone, I gather the shattered pieces of myself scattered on the sidewalk, feeling every single jagged edge. My hands shake as I straighten.

“I-idiot,” I hiss at myself, leaning against the cold brick wall for support. I close my eyes, letting the darkness cradle me for a moment—a brief respite from the glaring light of day that exposes too much. I’m in public, but for just a few seconds, I need to compose myself as if I’m alone.

“Alexandru Whitmore,” I hiss, the name a bitter taste on my tongue. A poisoned chalice I’m forced to drink from. Trapped in a gilded cage bearing my own name, I suffocate under the weight of it. In a twisted moment of clarity, I crave the oblivion of those beneath the soil, sheltered from a world that seems to derive pleasure from my torment.

Why me? Of all the countless souls on this planet, why does the universe hate me most? The lie they tell that things will eventually get better if you just hold on? It’s a true mantra for the rest of the world perhaps, but not for me. It won’t get better. It can’t.

I am the exception.

Something is irrevocably broken within me.

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The world is a grotesque, mocking caricature, and I’m the punchline. A lifetime of being different, of being wrong, has etched itself into my bones—a constant, aching reminder of my inadequacy. I’ve tried to be strong, to wear indifference like a shield, but it’s cracked under the relentless barrage of their cruelty .

I.

Am.

Alone.

“P-p-pathetic,” I breathe out, the word a blade cutting into the soft underbelly of my soul. With nothing left but the echo of self-contempt, I push away from the wall. Of course, I can’t see shit because my glasses are still broken on the sidewalk.

Inside, the music floats, untouchable and pure. It’s a cruel contrast to the cacophony within me. Yet I can’t get myself to fetch my glasses and go inside. I’m still reeling from their scorn when a hand suddenly thrusts into my blurry vision. “Don’t listen to them,” a voice snaps, fierce and melodic at once.

Gravel digs into my palms as I swipe my glasses from the sidewalk then pull myself up with the smashed remains of my glasses in my other hand. The world swims, out of focus and distorted, but her shape is clear enough. My breath catches in my throat at her hazy outline. She’s so beautiful.

“Here, let me help you with those,” she says, taking the fractured spectacles from me with a tenderness that stings more than the bruises forming beneath my muscles. There’s something about her voice, her scent, and her kindness that vibrates against my skin .

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice a whisper of sound. Pretty, even through the haze. A delicate halo of wavy, dark hair frames her face, and her eyes glimmer with emotion.

“Daphne,” she introduces herself, her hand warm against mine as we stand side by side. I feel a strange pull towards her.

“Alexandru,” I reply in my usual shy murmur. Silently, I berate myself. This perfect girl caught me near my weakest. There’s no way she’ll speak to me after this.

We walk into the studio together. Forever being myself, I wish everyone would assume I’m here with Daphne. But it would never be believable. Her hips sway with a sort of confidence I’ll never have, and her smile is too bright for the type of person I’d attract.

Immediately, polished wood and resin hit us in the face as we head upstairs.

As soon as we enter the large studio, Daphne slips away to the harp section. The room packs with music students, but still I keep a watchful gaze on my angel.

Her ass plops in the first seat, the one I think is First Chair. Wonder how Victoria feels about that. The thought is fleeting because Daphne’s delicate fingers graze the harp’s strings in front of her like she’s meeting an old friend. It’s obvious how much she appreciates her art. Everything falls away as I watch her. There are fifty kids in here, but there may as well only be her.

I barely notice the teacher start class.

The first note Daphne coaxes forth is pure perfection. I lean against the wall, a silent observer to the beauty she creates amidst the chaos of my thoughts. Each intricate melodic note she plucks is both gentle and assured. Each pluck, each chord, speaks of a sorrowful grace that mirrors the turmoil I fight to keep hidden. My chest tightens as I watch her play, her hazel eyes closed in concentration and lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

The music fills the room and wraps around me, offering a comfort I hadn’t known I was seeking. It tells me stories of her own struggles, whispered between the harmonies. It’s an echo of pain that rivals my own. It’s then that I realize Daphne is a kindred spirit; her soul bares in every played note.

As the final chords fade into silence, leaving a haunting resonance in their wake, I’m left with an ache for something I cannot name. It’s not pain or longing, or family. It’s an ache that, for once, isn’t born from self-loathing but from a longing to connect with the girl who sees beyond the broken glasses and greasy hair. The girl who stands before me now, unaware of the depth of feeling she’s stirred within a boy who’s too accustomed to hiding in the shadows.

The last note shivers into silence, and I push off the wall, my heart a tight knot in my chest. Daphne’s fingers linger on the strings, her own heart seemingly caught in the web of music she’s just spun. As the other students pack up, I make my way over, ready to drown in her presence, to thank her for defending me outside.

“Hey,” I murmur as I approach, but the words snag in my throat when Celeste’s voice, laced with condescension, cuts through the quiet hum of the room. It’s directed at me, but she’s talking with my sister.

“Alex would be kinda cute if he lost the dweeb look, don’t you think?” she says, flicking her gaze over me like I’m some project, some before picture in a teen makeover show.

Victoria giggles, her eyes pinpricks under the fluorescent lights. “Ohmigod, you could be my sister-in-law!”

Rolling my eyes, I try to shake off their words, but they cling like tar, heavy and dark. I’m steps away from Daphne now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Close enough to speak.

“Let’s go, Daphne!” The harsh voice slashes the moment apart, and Daphne’s mother bursts into the studio, all sharp angles and jarring movements. I know it’s her mom because she looks like an older version of Daphne except harsher. Her tank top is stained, and she boldly chooses not to wear a bra, with her shorts riding up with every hurried step. The disdainful looks from everyone else in the room could probably cut glass.

“Sorry, Mom,” Daphne mumbles, not making eye contact with anyone as said mom yanks her away. She glances at me for a fraction of a second. I see something there—fear, embarrassment—before she turns away, leaving me in the wake of her departure.

“Bye, Alex,” she murmurs, so quietly it’s almost lost amidst the discordant clatter of her harp case snapping shut.

Standing there, abandoned in the middle of the room, the weight of her gaze—or the lack thereof—settles over me. She didn’t even say goodbye properly , I think, the hurt a living thing in my chest. It must be because of her mom, because of me.

I’m the loser who got saved by the girl, only to be left behind again. Daphne probably didn’t want her mother to see her wasting time with someone like me. And why would she? I’m the nerd with shattered glasses, the guy people love to hate.

I mean, I am literally standing in the middle of the room with cracked glasses and ripped jeans. Not to be cool, but as a result of falling to the sidewalk earlier.

“Are you alright?” Celeste asks, but the question feels distant, detached from the raw ache that’s constricting around my heart. I nod, not trusting my voice, and turn to leave. The image of Daphne’s retreating back etches into my memory.

“See you around, Whitmore,” Celeste calls out, her words coated with syrupy faux sweetness that makes my stomach churn. Last week, I heard her tell Victoria that I should lose ten pounds. Not exactly a thing a guy with low self-esteem wants to hear.

“Sure,” I manage.

Once outside, the evening air does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. My feet carry me away, each step echoing with the brutal cadence of my thoughts: You’re not good enough. Never were, never will be.

Never enough.

And as the distance grows between me and the institute, between me and Daphne, I can’t help but wonder if things might have been different if I weren’t me. If maybe, just maybe, I could strip away this dweeb skin and be someone worth noticing.

Yet, deep down, I know it’s not about the glasses or the hair, or even the bullies. It’s about the gaping void inside me, the one that swallows joy and leaves only echoes of what could have been. It’s about the despair that holds me tighter than any embrace ever could.

“Alex, you okay?” Victoria asks as she catches up, her concern barely piercing the fog.

“Fine,” I lie, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. Because I am not fine. I am never fine. It’s all I’ll ever have.

As we walk home together, I sink further into my private darkness, haunted by the thought of Daphne’s fleeting touch, the softness of her voice, and the crushing reality of my insignificance.

Clutching my bent glasses, I watch Daphne’s retreating figure. She and her mom are crossing the street, headed towards a rust bucket of a car. There’s no way she lives within walking distance. Rent around here is a few thousand. My guess is she lives across town, at the public school.

“Can you believe her?” Victoria’s voice cuts through the silence. She strides beside me, her brown eyes flashing with a familiar scorn. “Making mistake after mistake, and yet they all fawn over her.”

“Who?” I ask, although I know exactly who she’s talking about, though I didn’t hear any mistakes. Only perfection.

“Daphne,” she spits out the name as if it leaves a nasty taste in her mouth. “She’s so obviously the teacher’s pet. It’s disgusting. Just because she’s poor and has some sob story, they let her get away with everything.”

I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide the tremors that betray my nerves. “Maybe they just see something in her,” I mumble half-heartedly, not quite ready to defend Daphne aloud.

“Something in her? Please.” Victoria scoffs, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. “They’re blinded by pity. All this charity case does is pluck at those strings, and everyone swoons. It’s pathetic.”

I can hear the jealousy lacing her words, sharp and bitter. Part of me wants to argue that Daphne transcends her circumstances. She plays beautifully despite—or perhaps because of—the darkness in her life. But self-preservation keeps my mouth firmly shut.

“Alex, are you even listening?” Victoria snaps, her impatience a whip crack in the quiet street.

“Sorry,” I say, the word hollow. “Just thinking.”

“About what? Don’t worry, big brother. You’re not useless, like Daphne.” Her words are meant to comfort, I think, in her own twisted way. “Come on, let’s go home.” She’s completely oblivious to the turmoil she’s stirred within me.

I follow her, nothing but a shadow trailing behind the only person who still cares enough to look back. But even then, I know it’s not concern that tethers her to me; it’s duty, a sense of obligation to our shared family.

And as we walk, I wonder if there’s anyone out there who would ever choose to stand beside me not because they have to, but because they want to. With each step, my mind sinks deeper into the dirt, the darkness dragging me back to my coffin. In a sick way, it is the one place where expectations cannot find me, cannot hurt me anymore than I am already hurting myself.

Bringing myself back to the present, I’m reminded how I’d do anything to stay out of the past. To avoid regressing into the loser kid with bullies, who felt alone and was alone.

The darkness is always there. It didn’t magically disappear when Celeste and I started dating or when I made the football team, but at least no one talks about what a dweeb I am .

For self-preservation, I have to keep the charade of happiness. After all, I never left the coffin of my darkness, but at least I have friends talking to me through the dirt.