I didn't open the drawer again.
I stood there for a long second, frozen in that half–nightmare, half–memory fog, staring at the stupid handle like it was daring me to touch it again.
But I didn't.
I stepped away.
Barely breathing, barely thinking, but moving, and that was enough.
For once, I wasn't angry about being interrupted, in fact it felt more like a blessing.
If Mom hadn't come home exactly when she did, I don't want to know where my hands would've gone next.
Probably to the past, to my old mistakes. Probably somewhere I'll regret, somewhere old, somewhere dark.
I crawled into bed without changing, drinking water, eating, or even turning the lights off. The room was dim and quiet, like it was holding its breath with me. My phone lay a few inches away, Mason's messages still glowing faintly on the lock screen. I couldn't bring myself to pick it up again.
Not right now, not with the guilt still sticking to my ribs, not with Ethan's voice still echoing somewhere deep in my ears.
I curled into myself, pulling the blanket over my shoulders. My hands were still trembling, just a bit. But my breathing slowed. Mom's brief presence had somehow steadied me. She reminded me that I'm here, alive, breathing, and still fighting.
That had to be enough for tonight.
Eventually my eyes burned too much, and the exhaustion dragged me to sleep. No dreams about Ethan tonight, just darkness.
---
Morning
I woke up to sunlight glowing, and making the room look radiant. A sour dryness in my mouth. My hair was sticking to my cheek, looked very messy, and my blanket was half on the floor. For one small second, I felt okay.
Then the memories hit.
Last night, Ethan, Mason, the drawer, Mom.
My heart throbbed painfully, like it wanted to beat its way out of my chest.
"Oh God," I whispered, dragging a hand down my face.
I hadn't even replied to Mason. I literally left him on read, and he's not going to be happy about that, I chuckled. I threw myself upright so fast I almost got dizzy and grabbed my phone from under my pillow.
The screen exploded with notifications, messages stacked on messages.
Mason: My love, please talk to me.
Mason: It's been hours since you left me on read.
Mason: Are you still upset?
Mason: It's not my fault, I promise.
Mason: I was upset too when I had to leave without telling you.
Mason: I'm sorry, okay?
Mason: Please forgive me.
Mason: You forgive me, right?
My chest tightened, and a smile followed.
God! He was worried, over nothing. He had no ideaabout the storm happening on my side of the world.
I pressed my thumb to the video he sent. The thumbnail alone already looked like a disaster. His hair wild, his expression desperate and dramatic, like a boy begging for mercy in a cheesy romance movie.
I exhaled and hit play.
His face popped up instantly, too close to the camera.
"Lyraaa," he whined, voice cracking in a way that made him sound younger. I swear it wasn't my fault. My mom carried me like I was been kidnapped, to the airport—okay, not literally, don't laugh.
He tripped on something off-screen, gasped, and the phone tilted wildly, showing the ceiling.
I snorted.
Then he reappeared breathless, glaring at the camera like it betrayed him.
"Please don't be mad at me," he puffed dramatically. I'll literally fly back home mentally, okay, forget that, I sound insane. Please just text me, boo. I hate this silence, It's scaring me."
That broke me. But not in the sad way, in the warm way.
I covered my mouth as a laugh escaped, an actual laugh.Not forced, not broken, and definitely not to hide anything.
A real laugh. The first in days.
It came up to my chest unexpectedly, shaking something loose inside me, something heavy, something dark.
I replayed the video, twice. His dramatic tripping part made me laugh harder the second time. My cheeks heated, I was actually blushing, and I buried my face in the pillow like an idiot.
Why was he like this? Why was he this adorable? Why did he make things softer just by existing?
For a moment, just a moment, the weight of last night didn't crush me. It didn't disappear completely, but it loosened.
Enough for me to breathe normally, to feel something good.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, holding the phone to my chest, letting warmth settle into my bones.
Mason felt like a calm place, a gentle place, like a place that existed before everything got complicated.
For a little while, I forgot about Ethan's hands, Ethan's voice, Ethan's shadows.
I forgot about the drawer, and about the guilt housing itself under my ribs.
I just existed, and I didn't feel hurt.
I opened my messages, fingers wandering over the keyboard.
He deserved a reply, anything better than silence. He deserved the version of me that kissed him under the streetlight weeks ago, giggling, embarrassed, hopeful.
Not the version who almost opened the drawer last night, and now drowning in guilt.
But maybe, just maybe, I could be both and still be okay.
I inhaled slowly, smiling at my screen like a fool.
"Hey Milan boy…" I typed.
And for the first time since last night, it didn't feel like I was breaking.
It felt like I was healing.
Which was a good thing, right?