Chapter 4

CHAPTER

FOUR

Greg

I'm sprawled out on the bed, my muscles wound tight as a coiled spring. Eyes wide in the dark, I stare at the ceiling that's just a shade lighter than pitch black. The quiet's too loud, suffocating, filled with whispers of doubts that crawl through my mind like unwelcome intruders. I push against the sheets, restless, as fears gnaw at the edges of my consciousness—fears of closeness, of that raw vulnerability that comes with letting someone in.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself. The idea of being in a relationship, it's like dancing on a minefield. Every step could be the one that blows it all to hell. Memories, sharp and unbidden, slice through me—the weight of responsibility, the crushing loneliness, the scars that no one sees but feel like they're on display every damn second. Kelly...she deserves someone whole, not this fractured mess of a man.

A shiver runs down my spine as sleep tugs at me, dragging me down into its depths. I resist, knowing what waits for me there. But it's no use. I'm pulled under, and everything goes from murky to crystal-fucking-clear terror.

Now I'm back there, in the dust and the heat and the screams. My rifle's in my hands, heavy and real, and I'm running, always running. Smoke blurs my vision, but I can see them—my brothers-in-arms, fallen, faces contorted in pain and shock. And there's nothing I can do, nothing but fight and pray and survive.

"Greg, move your ass!" someone yells, but the voice is distant, drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Bullets zip by like deadly hornets, and my heart's slamming against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. Each breath is ragged, tearing through my throat, but there's no air, only the taste of fear and gunpowder.

"Help me..." It's a whisper, a plea, and I know that voice. I turn, but he's not there, just the ghost of a memory, eyes pleading from behind a blood-soaked bandana. No matter how fast I move, I can't reach him, can't save him. Powerless. Fucking powerless.

And then I'm falling, the ground ripped away beneath my feet, and I'm yelling, screaming until my voice is raw. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

"Kelly..." Her name rips from my throat, a lifeline in the chaos, but she's nowhere, just a dream within a nightmare. And the thought of her, waiting in the world beyond, safe and warm, it's the cruelest cut of all. Because here, in this hell, I'm alone. Utterly alone.

Panting. Drenched in sweat like I've just run a goddamn marathon. My heart's a sledgehammer against my chest, trying to burst through skin and bone. It's the dead of night, but the darkness is no sanctuary—it's a fucking prison.

"Shit," I gasp out, throwing the tangled sheets off my overheating body. I can't shake the images, the sounds. They cling to me, a second skin of terror. And Kelly...I look down at her still sleeping soundly, thank god. But fuck, I could've hurt her. The thought alone strangles me, coils of guilt tightening around my throat until I can barely breathe.

"Get it together, Greg." It's a whisper to myself, but it echoes like a shout in the silence of my room. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. Each step feels like wading through molasses as I pace, back and forth, a caged animal in a too-small enclosure.

"Can't do this to her. Can't risk it," I mutter under my breath. Every instinct screams to pull her close, to feel her warmth, her pulse beneath my fingertips. But memories are cruel masters. They whip and lash, painting every touch with shades of fear.

I stop by the window, hands pressed against the cool glass. The moon's a voyeur, its pale light casting long shadows across the room, across my body.

"Damn it!" The words tear from me, raw and ragged. I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the chaos inside my head. Kelly deserves better than a broken man with a head full of nightmares.

"I'll keep you safe, even if it means staying the hell away." The vow tastes like ash. It's a promise drenched in sorrow, a sentence self-imposed. But I'll bear it. For her, I'll shoulder this loneliness, this ache that carves hollows in my chest.

"Fuck," I groan, running a hand through my hair. It's not what I want. It's the last damn thing I want. But it's the only play I've got. Because I won't be the monster in her story. Not ever.

So, I slip out while she's asleep.

I've got to do the right thing even if it tears my heart in two.

I tap the screen of my phone, a quick slide to refresh. Her profile pops up—the same one I've been lurking on for days. The soft glow illuminates the dark room, casting shadows that flicker like the doubts in my head. She's smiling in her latest post, looking radiant as ever, and my chest tightens. It's just an image, but it feels like a punch straight to the gut.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, thumb hovering over the heart icon. I want to reach out, to tell her everything, but there's this beast inside me, clawing at my insides, whispering that I'm no good for her. I can't press it. I can't let her know I'm here, watching, wanting. So, I just look, the images a silent film of her life without me.

She tried to contact me, but I refused to answer my phone. She got the hint, and I can imagine the hurt on her beautiful face, but she has to understand I'm doing this for her own good, and if I see her now, I'll cave.

And then I might accidentally hurt her.

And I can't have that. Won't have that.

A photo of her at our favorite café pops up, and the memory of her laugh, bright and genuine, hits me. My finger twitches, and there it is—an accidental like. Shit. Panic rises like bile. I quickly undo it, hoping she doesn't notice. But what if she does? What if she thinks I'm some kind of creep?

"Get a grip, Greg," I chide myself, locking the phone before I make another mistake.

The room feels too small suddenly, trapping me with the echo of my own thoughts. I stand, muscles stiff from tension, and start pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. The worn carpet under my bare feet is a path to nowhere.

Avoid—must avoid. The mantra plays over in my head. Don't go where she might be. Don't risk seeing her face, those eyes that see too much. I skip the morning run we used to do together, dodge the park where she sketches. Even the damn grocery store feels off-limits now. I choose loneliness over the ghost of her presence, haunting every corner of this godforsaken town.

"Pathetic," I scoff at my reflection in the window, nothing but a shadow against the night. "You're a fucking coward."

The bar down the street buzzes with life, laughter spilling into the night air. Once, I would've been there, maybe with her, sharing jokes and stealing kisses. Now, the idea of being around people, their questions, their pitying looks—it's too much. So, I turn away, retreat back into the darkness of my apartment, my cell.

"Better alone," I whisper, sinking into the couch, letting silence swallow the space. "Better for everyone."

My phone sits there. One more peek, one last glimpse before I shut it all out. But I know that road, where it leads—to more pain, more regret. So, I leave it be, a small act of defiance against my own twisted desires.

"Tomorrow," I tell myself, "maybe tomorrow I'll be stronger." But as sleep comes to claim me, dragging me down into dreams I don't want to face, I know it's just another lie. Tomorrow is just another day without her, another day fighting this war within.