21. Evie

21

EVIE

T he sun slips through the curtains, casting soft rays across my bed, but I don’t move. I’ve been awake for hours, lying here in this half-light, staring at the ceiling, my mind restless and full of thoughts I can’t seem to quiet. It’s been days—days since Sasha walked out of the bookstore, since she left me sitting at that table with all the shattered pieces of what we used to be.

And I haven’t reached out.

I know why. I keep telling myself the same thing, over and over: I can’t go back to her. I can’t be the one to break first. It’s a block I can’t shake, a wall that’s been there for as long as I can remember. My mom was the same way—leaving and never returning. She’d drift in and out of my life like a ghost, and every time I’d reach out, she’d be gone again. Always gone. I learned early on not to be the one who goes looking. You get hurt that way.

But with Sasha, it feels different. Or maybe that’s what I want to believe. I don’t know anymore.

I close my eyes, but it’s worse. All I see is her. Her skin against mine, the feel of her breath on my neck, her fingers tangled in my hair as she whispers my name. I remember the way she made me feel, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way she’d kiss me slowly, taking her time, like she was memorizing every inch of me. I remember the weight of her body pressed against mine, the way we fit together so perfectly in those quiet, intimate moments.

I can still feel her hands on me, the way they’d slide down my sides, rough and soft all at once, between my legs, fingers pushing deep inside of me, leaving trails of heat that would linger long after she was gone. The memory is too real, too vivid. It’s like she’s still here, but she’s not. She’s out there somewhere, and I’m lying here, wanting her. Needing her.

But I can’t reach out. I just...can’t.

It’s a mental block I can’t get past. The fear is too big, too loud. What if I let her back in, and she leaves again? What if I open up, and she walks away, just like my mom always did? That kind of hurt—I've felt it too many times. I don’t think I can survive it again.

Still, every night when I lie here alone in my bed, I find myself wishing she’d come back. Wishing she’d just show up, even though I know it’s not fair to hope for that when I’m not willing to make the first move.

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed, though my body feels heavy, like it’s weighed down by something invisible. I head to the coffee shop on the corner, the one Sasha and I used to go to. It’s become a habit, sitting here, replaying our conversations in my mind. Every corner of this place reminds me of her, and I sit at the table by the window where we used to sit, arguing about poetry or laughing at something absurd. The seat across from me feels empty in a way that nothing can fill.

I can hear her voice, the way she’d tease me, always a little sharp, a little sweet. We’d debate everything—our favorite poets, the best cities in the world, whether iced coffee was superior to hot. She’d argue passionately, her eyes lighting up, and even when we disagreed, there was always that tension between us. The good kind. The kind that made me want to kiss her, just to stop her talking, just to feel her smile against my lips.

I take a sip of my coffee, but it doesn’t taste the same. Nothing does.

I keep going over everything she said the last time we spoke. Her apology, the way her voice broke when she admitted why she didn’t tell me about Gareth. I understand now, I really do. She was scared, just like I am. Scared of losing something that mattered, scared of being judged for her past. And deep down, I know I’ve already forgiven her. I forgave her the moment she left the bookstore.

But forgiveness doesn’t mean I can reach out. It doesn’t mean I can push past the fear that’s been sitting in my chest, hard and unmoving, since the day she told me the truth. Because forgiveness is one thing, but trusting her again... that’s something else entirely.

And yet, here I am, every day, hoping she’ll come back. Wishing she’d walk through the door of this coffee shop or the bookstore, like nothing ever happened. I want her to fight for us, to prove to me that she’s not going to disappear. That I can trust her not to leave.

But maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I’m asking for too much.

The days blur together, each one a repeat of the last. I go to the bookstore, I shelve books, I help customers, but my mind is always somewhere else. Always on Sasha. Every night, I lie awake, thinking about her, waiting for something to change. Waiting for her to come back. But she doesn’t.

It’s late afternoon when the bell above the door rings. I’m behind the counter, lost in thought, flipping through the pages of a book I’ve read a hundred times. I look up, half-expecting another regular customer, but it’s not.

It’s Glass.

He steps inside, his usual swagger toned down, his expression serious in a way I’m not used to seeing. He looks around the bookstore, his sharp eyes taking in the familiar space before landing on me.

“Well, look who’s still hiding,” he says, his voice light, but there’s an edge to it. He walks over to the counter, resting his hands on it as he looks me over. “You look like hell, Evie.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to muster some kind of defense. “Nice to see you too, Glass.”

He shrugs, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “You know why I’m here.”

I glance down at the counter, suddenly feeling exposed. “If this is about Sasha?—”

“Of course it’s about Sasha,” he interrupts, his tone sharp but not unkind. “She’s a mess, you’re a mess, and I’m getting tired of watching the two of you dance around each other like this.”

I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. “It’s not that simple.”

Glass sighs, leaning in a little closer. “I know it’s not simple. I’m not saying it is. But what are you waiting for, Evie? She laid everything out for you. She was honest, finally. And you’re sitting here, what? Wishing she’d come back? Hoping she’ll fix this?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He knows.

“Look, I get it,” he continues, his voice softer now. “You’ve been hurt before. You’ve got your reasons for not reaching out. But Sasha’s not your mom. She’s not going to leave you the way your mom did. And you know that.”

I flinch at the mention of my mom, the old wound still too raw. “I don’t know that.”

“Yes, you do,” he says firmly. “You know her. You know she’s not going to just walk away from this unless you make her believe there’s nothing left to fight for.”

I blink back the tears that are threatening to fall. “I’ve already forgiven her, Glass. I understand why she didn’t tell me. I get it. But I can’t—” My voice cracks, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I can’t reach out. I can’t be the one to do it.”

He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “You’re scared. I get it. But here’s the thing: You don’t have to be the one to fix everything. You just need to let her know that you’re willing to try. She’s out there, Evie. She’s waiting for you to give her a sign. Any sign.”

I look away, unable to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late?”

Glass gives me a sad smile. “It’s only too late if you let it be.”

We stand in silence for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking in. I know he’s right. Deep down, I know that if I don’t do something, I’m going to lose her. Maybe I already have. But the fear, it’s still there, gnawing at me, keeping me from reaching out.

“Do you love her?” Glass asks, his voice gentle now.

I don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I don’t have an answer. I don’t have anything.

All I have is the hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late.

I clutch my journal so tightly my knuckles are white, the worn leather cool against my clammy hands. My heart’s been racing since I woke up this morning, and it hasn’t slowed down. It won’t. Not until I know whether or not she’s coming. Whether or not they’re coming.

The bookstore is already filling up, people drifting in with their conversations and laughter, the familiar clatter of chairs being set up for the night. It’s a Saturday, so it’s busier than usual, with the usual mix of regulars and curious newcomers who heard about our poetry nights. But tonight is different. Tonight, I’m not just the host. I’m the one waiting to read.

And I’m waiting for her.

Glass had said he’d get her here. We’d planned it all out, how he’d bring her to the poetry night, not tell her I’d be reading, just...nudge her in the right direction. He seemed so sure, so confident. But now, as I glance toward the door for what feels like the hundredth time, they’re still not here, and doubts start creeping in.

Maybe he couldn’t do it. Maybe she said no.

My stomach twists with anxiety, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. It’s no use. My mind keeps spinning with possibilities, with all the ways this could go wrong. If she’s not here, then what was the point? I’m about to bare my soul, to read something I’ve never shared with anyone, and I can’t even be sure she’ll hear it.

The clock ticks closer to the start of the event, and I force myself to focus on the tasks at hand—setting up the microphone, adjusting the chairs, checking the sound system. It’s all muscle memory at this point, the routines I’ve done a thousand times before, but tonight they feel different. Heavier.

I glance at the door again, my heart lurching every time it swings open, but it’s never them. People are filing in, taking their seats, but there’s still no sign of Glass or Sasha. A knot tightens in my chest, and I feel another pang of doubt creeping in.

Maybe she doesn’t want to come. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. Glass promised. He said he’d talk to her, that he’d get her here. But now, with every passing minute, I feel that hope slipping away.

The room buzzes with chatter, people mingling, flipping through poetry books, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. I look down at my journal, the one I’ve been holding like a lifeline, and my stomach flips. I’m not used to this. I’m not a performer. I’ve hosted these nights for years, but I’ve never gotten up on that stage and read anything I’ve written.

But tonight, I’m doing it. I’m doing it for her.

The lights dim slightly, signaling that we’re about to start, and I feel a rush of nerves wash over me. I glance at the door one last time, hoping—praying—that I’ll see Sasha’s face in the crowd, but...nothing.

My heart sinks.

Maybe it’s better this way, I tell myself. If she’s not here, I won’t have to face her reaction. But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. I want her here. I want her to hear my words, to understand everything I’ve been too afraid to say. I want her to know that I’ve forgiven her, that I’ve been waiting for her.

But she’s not here.

I take a shaky breath as I walk to the small stage at the front of the room, my journal still clutched in my hands. The familiar faces of the crowd blur together as I climb the steps, the light from the overhead bulbs making the room feel warmer than it is. I feel the weight of every eye on me, but all I can think about is the two people who aren’t here.

The microphone crackles as I adjust it, and for a moment, I feel like I’m outside my own body watching someone else do this. Someone else with the courage to stand in front of a crowd and read something deeply personal. But then I catch my reflection in the window, and it’s me. It’s really me.

I open the journal, my hands trembling slightly as I flip to the page I’ve read a hundred times, rehearsed in the quiet of my apartment, whispered into the dark of sleepless nights.

The room quiets, and I clear my throat, my voice shaky as I speak into the microphone.

“I-I’m not a poet,” I start, forcing a small smile. “I’ve spent years hosting these nights, listening to so many beautiful voices share their words, their hearts. But tonight, I wanted to try something different, so here’s something I wrote.”

I pause, my fingers gripping the edges of the journal, and I glance at the door one last time. Still nothing.

She’s not coming.

I take a deep breath and begin to read.

“Love is not the kind of thing

That stays where you leave it.

It lingers in empty spaces,

Takes root in all the places

You never thought to look.

Love is not the kind of thing

That waits for you to be ready.

It sneaks up on you,

Soft as a whisper,

Sharp as a blade.

Love is not the kind of thing

That forgives easily.

It remembers the broken promises,

The things left unsaid,

And it holds them close

Like old scars

That never quite fade.

But love is the kind of thing

That waits, even when it shouldn’t.

It waits for the words to come,

For the fear to fade,

For the walls to crumble.

Love waits because it knows

That when the time comes,

When the fear is gone,

It will still be there,

Waiting.

Always waiting.”

The words hang in the air, suspended between me and the silent crowd. I don’t know what I expected—applause, maybe? But all I feel is the quiet weight of their attention, the way they’re watching me like they’re waiting for something more.

I close the journal, my hands still trembling, and step back from the microphone, my heart pounding. I don’t look up. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the empty space where I wanted Sasha to be, and I’m not sure I can handle that.

But then the door creaks open.

I glance up, my heart stuttering in my chest.

Sasha.

She’s standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, searching the room until they land on me. And behind her, just barely visible, is Glass, giving me a small smile.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. She’s here. She came.

For a moment, everything else fades away—the room, the crowd, the noise—and it’s just us. Just me and Sasha, standing on opposite sides of the room, both of us waiting for the other to make a move.

She hesitates, and then, slowly, she steps forward.

And my heart, the one I thought had been locked up for good, starts to beat again.