30. Alex

Chapter thirty

Alex

I ’m not coping well. Who the fuck would when they lost the love of their life?

So, like any damaged man who realized his mistakes too late, I created a fake social media account to stalk Daphne. What? One cannot taste heaven and simply pretend it never existed.

And, I know, I know, I could have followed her when we were together, but I fucked up, okay? Unfortunately, I’m not a time traveler, but I am Bex Trivesta, a twenty-five-year-old interior designer who attended WU two years ago.

Don’t worry, I made this Bex persona up, so it’s not like I’m stealing anyone’s identity. My sole aim is to watch Daph’s social media secretly after she blocked my actual account.

I tap the screen, and Daphne’s world flows silently into mine. Her harp dominates every post. Notes I can’t hear but feel. It’s in how she uses a filter that turns everything wistful, like a melancholy rainy Sunday. There’s even a picture where her short hair spills over the harp, dark waves against polished wood. I want to touch it, to twist a lock around my finger.

I screwed up. That hair that was once mine to caress is now just pixels on a screen.

The couch dips, a sign I’m not alone anymore. Victoria must have barged in. No knock, no warning. Typical of my sister, but I don’t mind. I’ve always craved my family’s attention.

“You need a shower,” Vic says with a wrinkled nose. I haven’t showered since the breakup, but I don’t care. Washing oneself hardly feels essential when one’s world is crashing around them.

See? If I hadn’t created Bex Trivesta, I’d be a thousand times worse.

“Later.” My thumb slides over Daphne’s image, unwilling to break the connection.

“Still pining, huh?” Victoria snatches the phone from my hand before I can react.

“Give it back.” I reach out, but she’s too quick. Her eyes already scan the screen.

She raises a brow. “Spying on Daphne?”

“Isn’t that what we all do, spy on one another?” I try to snatch the phone again, but she dodges, swiping through Daphne’s melancholy digital footprint .

Victoria shifts next to me, making the couch groan under her weight. She turns, all sharp eyes and sharper tone. “Explain it to me. Help me better understand.”

I feel the weight of her gaze, heavy like a verdict. “I’m in love with Daphne,” I confess, and it’s like setting a fractured bone—painful but necessary. If only I’d done it sooner, I wouldn’t have lost her.

“Love?” Victoria scoffs, her disbelief slicing through the air.

“Yeah. It was never about that with Celeste. It was status, expectations,” I say, my voice a mere whisper, admitting truths I’ve buried deep. “Not with Daphne. Sh-she’s passion and kindness. She doesn’t give a d-damn about any Whitmore legacy.”

Vic ignores my stuttering. Unlike most people, she’s never made fun of me for it. “Is that why you’re stalking her online?” Her voice is acid, burning away pretenses.

“S-stalking is a strong w-w-word.” I wince, even as I defend myself.

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s so special about her?”

Using the tips I learned in my SLP sessions—Speech, Language Pathologist—I take a deep breath and focus on each word to help from stuttering. “Sh-she’s real. Fights for what she loves. Her music… I-It’s her entire world.” I can see Daphne in my mind, her fingers dancing on the strings of her harp, each note a piece of her soul. “She had nothing, you know? Parents that should’ve cared but didn’t. Yet she’s out there, living her dream, making it happen against all odds.”

Victoria shifts, her legs tucking beneath her as if bracing for impact. “Remember that picture she posted? The one with some guy in bed with his face hidden?”

“Hard to forget.” My stomach knots, a mix of regret and nostalgia. We took that picture after we made love for the first time. Her roommates, my sister included, were all either out of town or at internships once we came back from the hotel, so Daphne and I spent the entire day in bed watching soap operas, drinking wine, and making love.

Hey! Soap operas happen to be one of my guilty pleasures. Daphne’s too.

“Was that you?” Vic asks.

“Yes.”

“Show me. The original.” There’s a command in her voice that brooks no argument.

I hesitate then unlock my phone, find the photo, and hand it over. She takes it, her focus total as she studies the image.

The silence stretches. I watch her eyes track over the picture, and I can’t help but fidget. Seconds tick by, morphing into minutes.

“You look happy,” she finally murmurs, not looking at me .

A single tear betrays me, slipping free. It’s a quiet testament to a past I can’t reclaim.

“So fucking happy,” I add. My voice is gravel when I speak again. “Keeping it all secret, that was my mistake.” The words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “I let Celeste… She just did whatever she wanted, and I didn’t stop her.” Yes, I realize I’m the one to blame here, wholeheartedly. My actions lead to Daphne leaving me, but I also allowed Celeste to manipulate me.

Victoria’s watching me, her eyes sharp. Waiting for more.

“Every time Celeste touched me, it felt wrong. Not like Daphne.” I shake my head, disgusted with myself. How could I have let another woman touch me? Looking back, it’s so stupid. I should have found other ways to respect Celeste. By honoring my past with Celeste to the degree I did, I destroyed my future with Daphne. No, honoring isn’t the right word. You honor a fallen relationship by thinking fondly of your time together. I pretended I was still dating her. I made my past my present, therefore ensuring the future I wanted would never come.

My hands ball into fists while the leather of the couch creaks under my tense form.

“Instead of pushing Celeste away, I pulled her closer. For what? Status?” I spit the word out like it’s poison. “I’m so screwed up. I traded genuine love for a fake life.”

“Alex,” Victoria says, but I cut her off.

“Can you hear how messed up that is? I knew what I had with Daphne was special. But I hid us away, like something shameful, when I fucking loved her. I still love her.”

The silence hangs heavy again. My chest feels tight like it’s caving in. Dying right now would be a fitting punishment.

“God, I was such an idiot.” My breath comes out in a hiss.

“Maybe you still have a chance—” Victoria starts, but I’m already shaking my head.

“Too late for chances. I made my choice. Now, Daphne’s gone. I get what I fucking deserve. Loneliness.” Another tear escapes, and I let it fall. This is who I am now.

Victoria sighs before grabbing my balled-up fists and clasping them. “Alex, look at me,” she demands.

Finally, I lift my gaze to meet my sister’s eyes. Satisfied, she says like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, “You self-sabotaged because you don’t think you deserve her.”

“I don’t deserve her,” I agree. “But I didn’t intentionally sabotage our relationship.”

“You kind of did, without consciously realizing.”

I scrub a hand through my hair, the strands catching on the rough calluses of my fingers. I find Victoria’s gaze, and I see an unnerving intensity in her brown eyes—a need to understand, to connect the dots she never knew were scattered.

By all means, I’ll lay them out for her.

“Vic-Vic-Victoria,” I start, my throat tight. “You rem-remember how Daphne a-asked you to look out for me?”

She nods slowly, her posture rigid with expectation.

The words claw their way up from the pit of my stomach. “When I was th-thirteen, I t-tried t-t-to end it all. I c-couldn’t take it anymore, t-the d-depression. I t-tried to hang m-myself, b-but she came. She sa-saved m-me.” The memory of that night gushes back—the cold bite of the rope, the desperation, the sudden warmth of Daphne’s arms pulling me from the darkness.

Victoria gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widen in horror. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is a strangled whisper, laced with betrayal and hurt. Tears drop from her lash lines as her eyes redden.

My sister is always so posed, but right now, she’s struggling with emotion.

“Because I c-couldn’t,” I admit, the guilt gnawing at my insides. “I’ve been t-t-trying to outrun it ever since, pretend it never h-happened. But Daphne, she’s n-never let me forget that I’m more than j-just that moment. ”

Tears stream down Victoria’s cheeks, glittering tracks of anguish that cut through her carefully applied makeup. She’s crying for me, for the brother she thought she knew, for all the secrets kept between us.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” I can’t tell if Vic is mad that Daphne kept this from her or grateful that Daph never held my suicide attempt over my head.

“S-she’s not like that. When she came back, she s-aw I had friends and s-seemed happy. I know if she thought the suicidal thoughts returned, she’d warn you. The same way how Daph never used it against me, she wouldn’t rub it in your face either.”

She takes in my words. Of all my mistakes, allowing my sister to continue her untrue belief about Daphne is my biggest one. Without Daphne, my suicide attempt would have been successful.

I’ve been so intent on pretending that time of my life didn’t exist, that I failed to appreciate all that Daphne’s done for me too.

“How are you now?” Her voice breaks, the words tumbling out amidst sobs.

“Every day’s a fight, Vic. Depression doesn’t clock out; it’s a relentless shadow. Yet I manage.” I then tell her the biggest reason I told no one. “Daphne’s mom got arrested the night she saved my life. Remember? ”

Her brows crinkle, thinking back. “Yeah, yeah, I think I do. Daphne never came back to the music center. She went into foster care, right?”

“Yes. I remember you being so happy when Daphne left. Your biggest rival dropped out, and you were the star again. I kept my mouth shut. Everyone knew Daphne and I crushed on each other, but you hated it, and since Daphne was gone anyway, I didn’t see the point in pissing you off.

“A few days later, Celeste started talking to me after a group of bullies broke my glasses again. Remember? It was the second time that year, and Mom and Dad were pissed. Anyway, Celeste made a joke about how I looked less nerdy and that was enough to get her to say hello. Inspired by her words, I switched to contacts, lost weight, and joined the football team. Here I am now.”

“But it didn’t help with your depression,” Victoria abstracts.

I shake my head. “No. It was easier to hide but still there. It’s always lingering.”

I guess that’s partly why I pushed Daphne away. She understands the darkness, the depths of my despair, and she still reaches out to me. Tears well up in my eyes as I think of Daphne’s gentle touch, her comforting words. She reminded me of my suicide attempt and accepted me for who I truly am, depression and all. Unlike Celeste, who would dismiss my pain or demand that I “ toughen up”, Daphne was there to wipe away my tears. I’ve been trying to bury my emotions for so long that I held onto Celeste’s way of thinking for too long.

It’s like I didn’t know how to accept Daphne’s love, so I shoved it in a pit and hurt her over and over.

Stating the obvious, I say, “Daphne broke up with me.”

Victoria’s hand comes out of nowhere, a swift light smack against my shoulder. “Duh, you let Celeste hang all over you, you fool!”

I flinch, not from the pain—it’s more like being flicked by a feather—but from the sting of her words, the truth in them gnawing at me. Confusion clouds my thoughts as I search her face, expecting to find scorn or contempt. It’s a strange thing, being caught between hope and despair, wanting someone to understand but fearing their judgment all the same. Sure, we were talking about serious topics, but this is Victoria, after all.

“You’re no longer mad I was dating your enemy?”

She sighs, a forlorn expression casting shadows over her usually impassive features. “No,” she says, and there’s a sadness in her voice that makes the air feel heavy.

My heart clenches at this unexpected vulnerability from Victoria. She’s always been the impenetrable fortress, the unassailable peak of the Whitmore legacy. To see her walls crack, even slightly, is disarming.

“I’ve always been jealous of Daphne,” she admits, her gaze drifting away. “Of her natural talent and her grandmother’s unconditional love.” There’s a raw honesty in her tone, one that resonates with the pain of long-held envy. “I’ve been immature.”

The confession hangs in the air, a fragile thing made of glass. It’s an admission that costs her pride; I can tell.

I swallow hard, the sharp edges of my heartache cutting deeper with each word. To hear Victoria speak of jealousy, of immaturity, is to see her in a light I never expected to shine on her. It’s disconcerting, this shift in dynamics, this glimpse into her soul. It lays bare a truth I’ve ignored for far too long.

“Victoria…” My voice trails off, unsure of how to navigate this new, fragile terrain. There are no roadmaps for moments like this, no guides for traversing the emotional wreckage of our lives. We’re both adrift, it seems, caught in the riptide of revelations that threaten to pull us under.

We sit in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. In that quiet, I realize how much I’ve misunderstood the people I thought I knew. It’s a sobering thought, one that etches itself into the marrow of my bones, heavy and profound .

“Victoria,” I start again, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

For what, I’m not entirely sure—for her pain, for mine, for the tangled mess of our lives. For not trusting her to love me enough as a sibling should, and for pretending I was happy with her best friend. I didn’t give Vic enough credit.

Either way, the apology feels necessary.

“Can you two fix this?” Victoria’s voice is small.

“God, I hope so,” I whisper, my heart yearning for the girl who owns every drop of blood in my veins. “Because without her, I’m just a ghost of myself.”

We sit there, brother and sister. It’s a raw, unguarded moment. For once, Victoria’s social armor is gone, as is mine.

The silence stretches between us, a taut thread ready to snap. Victoria’s eyes have swelled from crying, and vulnerability has replaced her usual coldness.

“What do you mean, a ghost of yourself?” She brushes away the last of her tears, her voice still wobbly from the emotional upheaval.

I swallow hard, feeling like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. “I-I’ve been living a lie, Vic.” My words are barely above a whisper, but they echo in the vastness of my admission. “This whole ‘business major, football jock’ persona, it’s not me. ”

“Then what is?” Her question is a gentle prod, nudging me towards the truth I’ve buried deep.

I can feel the weight of years of pretense lifting as I confess, “I’ve always wanted to be a chef.” The secret tastes bittersweet on my tongue, liberating yet terrifying.

“Wait. A chef?” Surprise flickers across her face. “But you haven’t touched a kitchen for anything more than a protein shake since—”

“Since I was thirteen,” I finish for her, looking down at my hands to imagine them coated in flour instead of gripping a football. “I stopped cooking when it wasn’t cool anymore, when I realized guys like me aren’t supposed to love gastronomy.”

“Gastronomy,” she quietly says, before a teasing grin lights her face. “You’re such a nerd, Alex.” Then her gaze softens, and she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on mine. “I always wondered why you stopped. Your risotto was to die for! You were so passionate about it.” There’s a note of sadness in her voice, a mourning for the brother she once knew.

“Passion doesn’t fit the Whitmore image, though, does it?” I say with a bitter laugh. “It’s all about appearances, maintaining the facade.”

“Maybe it’s time to burn the damn facade down,” Victoria says fiercely, her brown eyes igniting with resolve. “To hell with what people think, Alex. To hell with reputation and expectations. It’s time for you to be happy.”

“Happy,” I murmur, rolling the word around in my mouth like a foreign delicacy, savoring the feel. “I don’t even know if I remember what that feels like.”

“Then let’s remind you,” she says, standing up with a newfound determination. “You’re going to find your joy again, Alex. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone—Celeste, Dad, the entire blasted society, or me—stand in your way. If you want Daphne, fight for her.”

Her words spark something in me, a flicker of hope that dances dangerously close to reigniting my long-extinguished dreams. It’s a terrifying prospect, to reach for what I truly desire, but the alternative is a life half lived, a soul starved of its true sustenance.

“Thank you, Vic,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “For understanding, for standing by me.”

“Always.” For the first time in years, I believe I can step out from behind the mask I’ve crafted so carefully and embrace the flavors of a life unfettered by fear.

“Vic,” I start. “What if the grandest gesture is simply being myself? No more charades, no more hiding behind what I’m supposed to be. Just Alex.” Surprisingly, my anxiety lessens at my resolve, and my stuttering has not returned .

“Yes,” she breathes out. “You’ve got to show Daphne the real you. The one who dreams of flavors and scents, not touchdowns and stock portfolios.”

Agreeing, I say, “When we were dating, she kept asking me to cook for her. I’m ready now, and even if it’s too late, I’ll pour every ounce of my truth into a dish and let it carry all the words I’ve never said. Which is that I love her, and if she wants a thousand meals, I’ll give her every one.”

“Authenticity, Alex. It’s the most romantic thing you can offer,” Victoria says, conviction lacing her tone.

Chasing after Daphne reminds me of an obstacle in the form of my ex. “Will you help me keep Celeste at bay?”

“Consider it done.”

With her words as my talisman, I rise from the couch, my spirit buoyed by the prospect of shedding the facade that has suffocated me for too long. There’s a future ahead where I stand unapologetically in my skin, where love isn’t shadowed by pretense.

If this conversation has shown me anything, it’s that I need to finally commit to therapy and support Daphne as she has supported me.

First, it starts with a single honest meal.