Chapter 5

CHAPTER

FIVE

Kelly

I stalk the length of my room, back and forth, like some caged animal. The walls close in, taunting me with memories. Enough is enough. I need to see him, need to hear it from his lips—why he's shut me out, why he's left me alone in this confusion that cuts deeper than any knife.

"Greg?" I call out, knocking on his door, my heart thrashing against my ribs. "We need to talk."

I can almost hear the grit of his teeth grinding on the other side. The door swings open, and there he stands, a brooding statue framed by the doorway. His eyes, those intense pools of torment, don't quite meet mine.

"Kelly." His voice is a low rumble, a storm brewing on the horizon. He doesn't step aside, doesn't welcome me in. "Now's not a good time."

"Like hell it isn't," I shoot back, pushing past him into the dimly lit space that smells of him, of us. "You've been avoiding me, Greg. Ghosting me like I'm some one-night stand. What did I do? Tell me."

"Kelly, you don't understand—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"No, you're right, I don't!" My voice rises, a crescendo of hurt. "I thought we had something real, something worth fighting for. Was it all just bullshit?"

"Watch your mouth, Kelly," he warns, the edge in his voice sharper than I've ever heard. But I'm past caring, past being the nice girl who waits quietly.

"Or what, Greg? You'll leave me again?" I spit the words at him, venomous and dripping with accusation. "Go ahead. Run away from this, from us. It's what you're good at, isn't it?"

His jaw clenches, muscles working beneath the stubble that lines his face. "You think I want to be this way? You think I enjoy pushing you away?" He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Every night, I fight demons you can't even imagine, Kelly. And I won't let them touch you. Can't you see? I'm fucked up, beyond repair."

"Stop using your past as an excuse to act like an asshole!" I'm screaming now, tears blurring my vision. "Everyone has scars, Greg. But you...you use yours to build walls instead of bridges."

"Damn it, Kelly! You're too good for me, too pure, too alive." His voice breaks, and it's like I can see the cracks in his armor. "I'm a disaster waiting to happen. A grenade with the pin pulled out."

"Then let me be your bomb squad," I plead, reaching for his hand, desperate to bridge the gap between us. But he recoils as if burned.

"No." The word is final, a gunshot in the silence. "It's over, Kelly. For your own good. Leave."

"Fine." The sobs rack my body, but I straighten up, anger giving me strength. "Have it your way, Greg. But when you're lying here alone, remember this. I loved you, despite everything. And you threw it away."

I storm out, letting the door slam behind me, a punctuation mark to the end of us. As I walk away, my heart shatters with each step, pieces scattering like shrapnel. We were supposed to be explosive together, not apart. But in the end, he was right—we were a disaster. And now, we're just wreckage.

Greg

The door slams shut behind her, and I'm alone—more alone than I've been in a long fucking time. The echo of it bounces around the sparse room like my own thoughts, ricocheting off the walls until I can't stand it. I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars, but it doesn't stop the ache in my chest.

"Fuck," I mutter to the empty room, the word hollow, useless. My heart's a clenched fist, every beat a pulse of raw hurt, reminding me she's gone. Kelly's gone because I pushed her away, because I couldn't be the man she needed. The man she deserved.

I stumble through days that blend into nights, haunted by the memory of her—her laugh, her touch, the way her brown eyes lit up when she smiled. It's like a goddamn curse, feeling her absence like a missing limb. I drown myself in workouts, pushing my body until it screams, anything to silence the chaos in my head. But nothing works. She's there, a ghost in every corner of my life.

It's on one of those endless nights that the call comes. A lifeline thrown into the churning sea of my self-made solitude. Mike's voice is a gruff reminder of a past life, one where brotherhood meant something more than blood.

"Greg, you stubborn son of a bitch," he growls through the phone, and even though it's been years, his voice is a slap of reality. "I've been hearing things, man. You're spiraling. You need to get your shit together."

"Mike, I—" What? Have excuses? Can justify how fucked up I am? I got nothing.

"Listen to me," he interrupts, all drill sergeant now. "You survived hell. Don't let it claim you now, not when you're home, not when you have a shot at happiness."

"Kelly's gone," I confess, the words tasting like defeat. "I'm toxic, Mike. Everything I touch?—"

"Is bullshit," he snaps. "You think you're the only one with demons, brother? We all got 'em. But we fight, Greg. That's what we do."

His words hit hard, a punch to the gut that knocks the wind out of me. Fight. It's what I know, what I'm trained for. But this battle, it's different—it's against an enemy that knows all my secrets, my weaknesses. Myself.

"Get help, Greg. For the PTSD, for whatever else is eating you up inside. Do it for yourself, or do it for her. But do it." Mike's voice softens. "You deserve more than this. And so does she."

When the line goes dead, the silence isn't as oppressive as before. It's almost...expectant. Like the universe is holding its breath, waiting for me to make a move. To fight back.

"Okay," I whisper to the darkness. "Okay."

It's a start, a tiny spark in the night.

Kelly

I'm slumped on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through my phone when the doorbell rings. My heart does that stupid leap thing it always does, like a pathetic Pavlovian response, hoping it's Greg. But no, it's just me being an idiot because I know who's on the other side of that door.

"Hey," Jenna says as she breezes in, her arms laden with what looks like half the grocery store. "Thought you could use some reinforcements."

"Chocolate and wine?" I guess, trying for light-hearted but landing somewhere closer to bitter.

"Among other things." She gives me that look, the one that says 'I'm here for you, spill it'.

"Jen," I start and then stop. How do you tell your best friend that your heart feels like it's been through a shredder?

"Kell, you're amazing. You know that, right?" She doesn't wait for my nod. "You're talented, you're gorgeous, and any guy would be lucky to have you."

She's laying it on thick, bless her. The thing is, all I can think about is how none of that seemed to matter to Greg.

"Greg's...he's got his own stuff, you know? It's not about you."

"Feels pretty personal when you get dumped because you're too much to handle," I mutter, picking at a loose thread on the cushion.

"Kelly," Jenna says firmly, grabbing my hand with her surprisingly strong grip. "You are not too much. You are enough. More than enough. And if Greg can't see that, then he's the one missing out."

I want to believe her, I really do. So, I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "Yeah."

"Besides," she continues, "you've got your work. Your art. That's part of who you are, and it's incredible. Focus on that. Grow from this. Because no man should define your worth."

Her words are like a cold splash of water, shocking me out of my pity party. She's right. I'm a graphic designer extraordinaire. I can't let Greg—or the lack of him—turn my life upside down.

"Okay," I say, more to myself than to her. "Okay."

That night, after Jenna leaves, I sit at my drafting table and lose myself in lines and colors, shapes and shadows. It's therapeutic, pouring everything I feel into something tangible. I'm good at this. Damn good.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.

Greg

Across the city, in the small hours where everything seems possible or hopeless depending on your brand of insomnia, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, a man wrestling with ghosts.

"Fight," Mike had said. And fight I shall.

I reach for my phone, hands shaking—not with fear this time, but with something like determination. I punch in Kelly's number, staring at it like it's a grenade pin.

"Hey," I whisper into the voicemail, her bright, cheery greeting a stark contrast to the gravel in my voice, "it's Greg. I...fuck, I'm sorry. For everything. I'm getting help, Kel. For the PTSD. For us, if you'll still have me."

The words hang there, naked and raw in the silence of my room. It's done. Ball's in her court.

I don't know if she'll call back, if those bridges are ash or just a little scorched. But hope, that treacherous, beautiful thing, starts to unfurl in my chest, a stubborn green shoot pushing through the cracks in the concrete.

Maybe it's foolish. Maybe it's brave. But it's a start. And right now, it's all I've got.