It's been a week since the beach. A week since the sky felt like ours and the waves whispered like secrets. But every time I think back to the morning I dropped Sebastian in front of that house, my heart starts racing like it did then — fast and frantic, like it was trying to escape my chest.
My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I gripped it so tightly my fingers went numb, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't want to stop the car. I didn't want to let go of him. I wanted to press the gas and drive until we outran everything — the bruises, the fear, the man behind that front door.
Sebastian looked at me, quiet and knowing. He always knows.
"Liv," he murmured, reaching out and curling his fingers around mine. His hand was warm, steady, like he was trying to tether me to the moment instead of the panic spiraling in my chest.
"I want to take you away from here," I whispered, not caring how desperate I sounded. "Right now. Just go somewhere — anywhere. Somewhere safe."
His smile was soft, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I know."
"Seb, please—"
"I'll be okay," he said gently, like he was trying to make it true by the way he said it. "I promise."
"You always say that." My voice cracked, and I hated that he heard it.
"And I always come back to you, don't I?"
"But for how long?" I said, voice barely above a whisper. "How long until something happens and you don't?"
He didn't answer. He just stared at me, and I saw it — the fear buried under all that calm, the flicker of pain he tried to hide so well. He saw the way I was biting my lip, and he shook his head with a tiny, broken laugh.
"Liv," he said, brushing his thumb over my mouth, "what did I tell you about doing that?"
I blinked back tears. "Sorry."
He leaned in and kissed me. Soft. Reassuring. His lips were warm and trembling, like he didn't want to go either. Like he knew this kiss might have to last longer than it should.
"I should go," he said after a moment.
I nodded, but my voice cracked again. "Just… be careful."
He looked at me like he wanted to say more, like there was a whole world trapped behind his tongue — but instead, he just nodded, squeezed my hand one last time, and opened the door.
He walked up the path with his shoulders a little too straight, like he was preparing for war. Like he'd done this too many times before.
And I sat there, frozen, watching the boy I loved walk into hell like he belonged there.
Since then, every night he goes home, I don't sleep. I wait. I wonder which version of him I'll see the next day — if he'll come back with new bruises he'll lie about, or if his smile will feel a little heavier, like it's carrying something I'll never fully understand.
Sometimes he comes back whole. Sometimes he doesn't.
And every single time, I pretend I'm not scared. But I am.
It's Sunday now, and we're going to a movie. I think it's a date — or maybe it isn't. He hasn't asked me officially, but everyone at school acts like we're together. We hold hands. We cuddle. We kiss. But somewhere deep inside me, there's this… gap. A hollow space I can't quite name.
What are we?
I got ready and was barely clipping on my earrings when I heard the honk outside. My heart did its usual leap. I ran out, my boots scuffing against the pavement, and flung the passenger door open.
"Hey," I said, sliding in beside him.
"Hey," he echoed, and kissed me again — quick but dizzying. God, the butterflies. They weren't dying down. They were multiplying.
He started the car, and we drove in that familiar, quiet comfort, music playing low. I could feel his fingers twitch on the gearstick like he wanted to reach for mine.
At the theater, he bought the tickets and popcorn — even remembered I like too much butter and exactly seven pieces of sour candy mixed in. We found our seats in the back row.
Halfway through the movie, he put his arm around me. I rested my head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. I wasn't watching the screen anymore. I was watching him — the way his profile looked lit by the flickering screen, how he blinked a second too slow when he was lost in thought.
After the movie, we ended up at this quiet little diner with flickering neon lights and worn leather booths that smelled like syrup and nostalgia. It felt like we had stepped into a bubble — a place out of time, where nothing could touch us.
Sebastian sat across from me, spinning a straw between his fingers, his eyes soft with leftover laughter from the movie. He was beautiful like this. Relaxed. Real. Still whole.
I smiled and tried to match his lightness, but the weight in my chest was something I couldn't ignore anymore.
He was talking about some band he liked — something about distorted guitars and lyrics that sounded like poetry. I was nodding, even laughing. But at some point, I drifted.
I stared down at the crinkle of my napkin, and my fingers went cold.
This… this thing between us — it was so close to everything I'd ever wanted. But it still wasn't named. It still wasn't safe.
I felt his gaze on me before he spoke.
"Liv?"
I blinked and looked up. "Huh?"
"You okay?" he asked, his brows drawing together. "You've been quiet since the burger landed."
I tried to laugh, to brush it off. "Just thinking."
He tilted his head. "About what?"
"I don't know…" I paused, glanced out the window. "Everything."
He didn't say anything. Just waited.
"I promised you I'd wait," I said softly. "And I meant it. I still do. But… sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for something that doesn't exist. Like I'm stuck in this in-between where we kiss and hold hands and I fall harder every single day, but you're still holding back. And I don't know if I'm allowed to ask you why."
His face changed — the kind of change where the walls go up so fast you can almost hear them hit the ground.
"I didn't mean to make you feel like that," he said. "I just… I don't know how to give you something I'm not even sure I know how to be."
My throat tightened. "You mean… in a relationship?"
He nodded, eyes dark and troubled. "I'm scared, Liv. Terrified, actually."
"I know you are."
"No," he said more firmly. "You don't. Olivia, I need you to hear this. I look at you and I see everything I never thought I'd have. Everything I thought I didn't deserve. But I'm still scared."
"Of what?" I whispered.
"Of loving you too much. Of needing you and then—losing control. Becoming him."
My heart cracked. "Seb…"
"You've seen me break," he continued, voice low. "But you haven't seen me at my worst. I've felt hate in my chest so strong I couldn't breathe. I've punched walls just to stop myself from screaming. I've looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the eyes staring back. What if that version of me comes out when you're near? What if I bring that into us?"
"You won't," I said immediately, but my voice broke, too.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here, right now, terrified of becoming something you're not. That alone tells me everything."
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair like he couldn't find enough air. "You deserve someone who doesn't flinch at the thought of love."
"I don't want perfect, Seb," I whispered, voice cracking under the weight of everything I couldn't say fast enough. "I want you. The real you. The one who's scarred and scared and still trying. I want the version of you that doesn't know how to breathe some days but still tries anyway. The broken pieces too, especially them—because they're still yours. And I love them like I love the rest of you."
Sebastian looked down at our hands on the table, his thumb brushing mine, slow and absent like he didn't even realize he was doing it.
"I don't know what this is," he said quietly. "I don't know what we are. But I know that every time I'm near you, I feel like I can breathe."
My heart thudded. "Then maybe that's enough to start."
He didn't answer. Just swallowed hard, his jaw working like he was fighting every word trying to come out.
"I'm scared, Liv," he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "You say you see good in me, but what if I'm just good at hiding the worst parts? What if I get too close and turn into him? What if I don't even notice it happening until it's too late?"
I reached for him, threading my fingers through his. "Then I'll notice. I'll be here to remind you."
"You shouldn't have to carry that," he said, shaking his head. "That's not love. That's… survival."
"No," I said, voice cracking. "It's faith. It's what you've given me without even realizing it."
He looked at me then—really looked. And the fear in his eyes made my chest feel too small for my heart.
"I want to believe in that," he said. "In us. But I don't know if I'm ready."
I nodded, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. "That's okay. I told you—I'll wait. I just needed you to know that I'm not here to fix you. I'm here to see you. All of you. Even the parts you're scared of."
And for a second, something in him cracked. His face crumpled—not with tears, but like he was barely holding himself together. Like he didn't know how to accept that kind of love but was too tired to keep running from it.
Then he whispered, "I'm not ready to say yes. But I don't want to lose you either."
I couldn't answer that, and silence swept between us
The ride home was quiet, but not heavy. Just… full. Like there were too many words, too many feelings, hovering in the space between us.
Seb kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gear shift. I watched the way the streetlights spilled across his face as we passed under them, how his expression shifted with each flicker of gold and shadow. He looked thoughtful—somewhere between exhausted and calm. Like he'd just been through something, and was still trying to process the aftershock.
When we pulled up outside my house, I reached for the door handle, ready to say goodbye, but—
"Liv," he said suddenly, like the word had been burning in his throat.
I looked back at him.
His eyes met mine, vulnerable in a way that made my breath catch.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. "But I want to try."
I stared at him, frozen for a second.
"I'm not ready to say yes. But I don't want to lose you either."
I couldn't answer that. My mouth opened, but the words died before they could find air. The silence that fell between us wasn't empty—it was aching. Thick with everything we hadn't said.
His hand clenched slightly around the steering wheel, knuckles paling. And then, slowly, he looked at me—not with fear this time, but with something else entirely.
"I've never had something good," he said, voice low. "Not like this. Every time I've held onto something, it's either been taken from me or I've ruined it myself. And I keep thinking… maybe if I don't name it, it won't break."
My chest tightened.
He looked down, like he was ashamed of how much he cared. "But I keep waking up and you're still there. You keep showing up, even when I push. Even when I'm… a mess."
His jaw tensed. "And the worst part? The scariest part? Is that I don't want to lose the one good thing I've ever had just because I'm scared of the man who made me."
He finally turned toward me fully, his eyes sharp with emotion.
"I'm terrified, Liv. I'm terrified of turning into him. Of hurting you. But I'm more terrified of living the rest of my life wishing I had just tried."
That broke something open in me. A quiet gasp left my lips.
And then, quietly, right near my ear, he said, "If I ever feel myself slipping—if I ever feel like I'm becoming him—I'll walk away. I swear I will."
I pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes.
"You won't have to," I said. "Because I'll be right here. And I'll pull you back every damn time."
He gave me a look I couldn't name. Somewhere between heartbreak and hope.
And then—he kissed me.
Soft. Intentional. Like he needed to feel the truth of what we'd just said. Like that kiss was the promise.
It wasn't hurried or desperate. It was real.
And when we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine for a second. I smiled through the sting in my chest.
Not the kind of smile that comes easy. The kind that matters.
He brushed his thumb lightly along my jaw. "You're everything I never thought I'd deserve."
"And you're wrong," I whispered back.
I stepped out of the car, heart aching in all the best ways, and turned to wave.
But as I reached the porch, something made me stop.
A shiver.
Like someone was watching me. I turned, scanning the street. But there was nothing—no one. Just shadows.
Still, the feeling lingered. Cold. Heavy. Wrong. I shook it off, forced a breath, and stepped inside.
Behind me, the door clicked shut. And even though everything had changed tonight—Seb and I were finally something—I couldn't help but feel like something else had just begun, too.
Something watching. Something waiting.