NATHAN'S POINT OF VIEW
My grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against its smooth surface. The road unfurled before me, but I was lost in the past. That door. Her tear-filled eyes flickering just before she shut me out entirely.
The sound of the lock clicking in my mind felt like a gunshot.
What did that mean?
I glanced down at my wrist, mindless, and the emptiness hit me like a punch to the gut. The bracelet, my last tether to her... was gone. I had left it with her, like a piece of my heart.
Now, my wrist felt wrong. Bare. Exposed.
I should turn back.
The thought slammed into me, sharp and urgent. My hand twitched toward the turn signal, heart racing. I could do it in an instant. A quick U-turn, back to her and the door that had separated us.
But I hesitated.
She needs space. I can't push her. Don't be that guy.
With forced resolve, I wrestled my gaze back to the road. But every instinct screamed that I had made a monumental error. Walking away had been the dumbest choice I could've made.
A hollow ache blossomed in my chest.
Suddenly, my phone rang, breaking the heavy silence in the car. The loud ring sent a jolt through me.
Dad.
I straightened, not from fear, but from that deep, ingrained respect he commanded. With just the sound of his name, I could almost feel myself standing taller.
I tapped the answer button. "Dad."
"Nathan." His voice came through the speaker, clear and steady, calm yet authoritative. "I'm landing tomorrow afternoon. Pick me up at three."
Not a question. A statement.
"Yes, sir. I'll be there."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat, then he spoke again.
"You sound different."
My stomach dropped. "Different how?"
"Distracted."
I scrambled to keep my tone light. "Just tired from the event last night."
Another silence, heavy and oppressive.
"Tired doesn't make your voice tight like that," he said quietly. "But we'll talk when I see you."
His words settled over me like a thick fog. Dad always knew. Always. You couldn't hide anything from him.
"Is everything okay?" I deflected quickly.
"Everything's fine." A pause, then he continued, "Is Ella with you?"
I frowned, surprised. "Ella? No. Why?"
"She insisted on coming home. Couldn't stop her. You know how she gets when she's been away too long."
Despite everything, a small smile crept onto my lips. Ella... my not-so-little sister. The only person in the world who could soften our father's usual stern tone.
"How is she?" I asked, genuine curiosity lighting my voice.
"Annoying as ever," he replied, but I could hear the warmth beneath his words. "She's been asking about you."
My chest tightened. "Asking what?"
"Ella says something feels off with you."
The steering wheel seemed to blur in my grip. "Why would she feel that?"
Dad sighed. "She's been complaining that you don't call or check up on her like you used to. She feels like you're avoiding her."
I felt a fresh wave of guilt roll in. "I didn't even realize…"
We fell into uncomfortable silence. Now that I thought about it, I had felt it too. Ever since Elena came into my life and Isabelle returned from abroad, everything had gotten chaotic. These two women, I couldn't pin down how they had turned my world upside down.
Dad didn't say another word, but the weight of his concern lingered.
"Hmm."
Just that sound. So simple yet echoing with unspoken truths.
I quickly switched topics. "Anything else I should know about your trip back?"
Another pause, this one thick with gravity.
"There's another reason I'm coming back early," he said finally.
"What's that?"
"Business matters involving our family and the Reyes family."
My senses sharpened immediately. "What kind of business?"
"Not over the phone. But it's significant. It will affect both families moving forward."
Panic began simmering beneath my skin. Partnership? A merger? Or something worse?
"Is everything okay?" I pressed.
"Everything's fine. Just complicated." He hesitated. "Richard and I have been discussing it for months. We'll need to sit down soon, all of us."
"Does Alex know?"
"Not yet. That's part of what we need to discuss."
Questions buzzed in my mind, but his tone suggested the conversation was wrapping up.
"Alright," I said, resigned. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"Nathan."
His voice shifted, urgency threading through it, forcing me to sit up straighter.
"Yes?"
He paused for what felt like an eternity, then spoke again, softer than I'd ever heard him.
"I hope you're not carrying everything alone."
I blinked, stunned. "What do you mean?"
"You've been the man of the house since you were ten," he said gently. "You took care of Ella when I couldn't function. You never complained. You never broke."
The weight of his words crashed down on me.
"But you don't need to be me, son," he added. "You're allowed to feel things. To want things."
I struggled to find my voice. This was not my father. He never spoke like this.
"Your mother used to tell me that," he said, voice quiet as if he was allowing vulnerability to seep through. "I didn't listen. I spent years regretting what went unsaid because I was too strong to be open."
I could hear him breathing, steady but filled with unspoken emotion.
"Don't make my mistakes."
Then he hung up.
I sat in stunned silence, the road ahead blurring into nothingness.
My father rarely mentioned my mother, and when he did, it was never straightforward.
She had died giving birth to Ella, leaving behind a whirlwind of disbelief and sorrow. One minute, she was there, vibrant, laughing, the light of our home. Next, she was a memory, fading too quickly for anyone to comprehend.
I was just ten years old then.
My father remained unbroken yet entirely subdued by that grief. He buried it beneath layers of work and stern discipline, raising us both alone. He never remarried, never even cast a glimmering glance toward another woman.
Some loves are simply irreplaceable.
I understood that truth now, whether I wanted to or not.
Hearing my father's voice was like resurrecting her spirit. My mother, the woman whose laughter used to echo through our home before silence took its relentless hold.
I pushed those thoughts aside; I couldn't let them linger. Yet the ache remained, small, sharp, a haunting reminder that never quite vanished.
And then, out of the blue, I found myself thinking about Isabelle.
Mom would have adored her.
The thought struck me from nowhere, but it lingered. My mother would have seen right through my defenses, whispering words of wisdom, urging me to confront my fears.
That notion both comforted and frightened me.
If Mom would have approved, what did that say about how I felt?
I parked in my driveway, gripping the steering wheel tightly with the engine off. I didn't get out.
I just sat there.
Thinking.
How would my father react to Isabelle? Would he welcome her? Dismiss her? Would he understand?
What about Ella? Stupid question. Ella loved everyone I cared about, often before I even admitted my feelings.
Why was this weighing on me?
She was Alex's little sister. Richard's daughter. I had known her since she was twelve; she's twenty-five now.
I had watched her grow up.
I was supposed to be her protector, not whatever this swirling mess was turning into.
With a soft thud, I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel.
What am I doing, Nathan?
Claire's words from last week echoed in my mind, clear as day.
"Go for whoever you think about the most."
Simple advice. Direct. Uncomplicated.
I had laughed it off at the time, brushing it away like a pesky fly.
But since that chat, Isabelle's been on my mind, constantly.
Morning, noon, and night. Every moment in between.
I wondered if she was okay. What she was doing. If she ever thought about me as much as I thought about her.
When did that shift happen?
When did she stop being Little Princess and start becoming… this?
I recalled how Elena had occupied my thoughts for so long, even though she was married. Something about her just lingered.
But after my conversation with Claire, everything changed.
Now, it was Isabelle I couldn't shake.
Her laughter. Her smile. The way she could light up a room effortlessly.
And looking back, I realized I'd been acting oddly for years. I didn't just want to protect her; I actively kept guys away, shielding her like I was trying to claim her for myself.
After all, what kind of friend wants his friend to be lonely?
I kept telling myself it was about protecting her. But deep down, I knew the truth was far more complicated.
That's when clarity washed over me.
Something was deeply, unavoidably wrong.
I finally pushed the car door open, locked the front door, and stepped inside.
The house felt desolate.
Too silent.
Too spacious for just one person.
As I walked through the living room, I suddenly envisioned her there. Curled up on my couch with a book, stealing my hoodies as she used to swindle my bracelet. Engaging me in playful debates about the atrocious movies she loved.
She would fill this silence.
I stood still, mid-room.
What are you doing to me, Izzybear?
And then my gaze landed on it.
On the coffee table.
A small, blue hair tie. Definitely not mine.
It must have been left behind weeks ago from a family gathering when she visited with her parents.
I picked it up, staring at the object in my hand.
I ought to toss it away.
But I slipped it into my pocket instead. Right next to my keys, a constant reminder every time I reached for them.
"You're in trouble," I muttered under my breath.
Not love, at least not yet.
But something close enough to unravel me.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
My heart skipped a beat.
I pulled it out slowly, bracing myself.
A message from Isabelle.
I stared at the notification, hesitant to open it.
Opening it meant confronting whatever she had to say.
And fear gripped me; it could either be a heartbreaking "don't contact me again" or the suffocating silence that follows.
One second ticked by. Then two. Then three.
Finally, I gathered enough courage to open it.
A photo appeared on my screen.
Her wrist.
Adorned with the bracelet.
No words, just that image.
My chest tightened.
Then another message pinged in.
"Why did you give it to me?"
I stared at the six words, realizing the answer instantly.
Because it's always been yours. Because I can't wear it anymore without thinking of you. Because giving you something of mine felt like the only way to remain close when you pushed me away.
But I didn't type any of that.
I just stared at the screen.
Another message popped up.
"Never mind. Forget I asked."
Just after it, a follow-up:
"Thank you anyway."
And then... silence.