[EVE]
"I know it wasn’t your fault," I continued, trying to steady my voice. "Neither of us wanted any of it to happen. And . . . I forgave you. Months ago, when I finally understood what you went through—I forgave you."
I looked away, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"But forgiveness doesn’t an I want you back in my life. After everything . . . after realizing how deeply you could affect —how easily you could break —I don’t think my heart can survive that again. You were the first person I truly let in, and when you left, it felt like the world collapsed under my feet. I can’t go through that again. I won’t."
I t his eyes, my vision blurred with tears I refused to shed. "So please . . . just go. Leave alone. I’m happy now. I’ve rebuilt my life from the pieces you left behind. Let’s move on—separately."
Cole didn’t move.
He stayed kneeling, silent, as if rooted to the floor. The flickering hallway light behind him cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the exhaustion etched into every line.
His jaw trembled, and for a second, I thought he might argue—beg, even. But instead, he simply lowered his head.
"I understand," he murmured, voice nearly inaudible.
I almost wished he’d fought back. That he’d shouted, accused, defended himself—sothing. Anything. But his stillness . . . his acceptance . . . it cracked sothing inside .
Zen stepped forward as if to help him up, but Cole gently waved him off. Slowly, like an old man, he rose to his feet. He looked taller than I rembered, or maybe it was just the weight he carried now—the guilt, the pain, the regret. It all hung off him like a second skin.
"I wanted to see you smile again," he said quietly, eyes on the floor. "Even if it wasn’t for ."
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. My chest ached, but I held my ground.
"You did see it," I whispered. "Now go."
Dean, arms crossed and fuming in the corner, was clearly seconds away from physically ejecting Cole into the hallway.
But he held back, maybe because he saw the way my hands trembled at my sides. Maybe because Damien was watching carefully, like I might shatter any second.
Cole nodded, one slow, solemn motion.
Then he turned.
He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t ask for one last hug. He just walked out the door and left—silent, broken, and sohow smaller than when he ca in.
Zen lingered.
His gaze flicked over the room—Dean, Damien, Dante, our parents—before settling on . "Thank you for hearing him out," he said quietly. "He didn’t co here expecting forgiveness. Just . . . to make sure that you’re alright."
I gave him a tight nod, my throat too tight to speak.
Deep down, I knew it wasn’t Cole’s fault—not entirely.
As hard as it was to believe that he’d been caught up in so kind of black magic vodoo shit, the pieces finally made sense. The sudden shift in his behavior, the cold distance, the words that didn’t sound like his—it all connected.
And knowing that truth helped ease so of the pain. It helped understand why he changed so drastically.
But understanding doesn’t an acceptance.
Even if he was a victim of sothing far beyond his control, I wasn’t ready to welco him back into my life.
And if I was being honest with myself . . . I didn’t think I ever would be. Not after everything I’d been through.
Because sowhere along the way—through the heartbreak, the grief, the healing—I learned sothing important: I would be okay without him. I could be whole without needing soone to patch up the cracks he left behind.
My family reminded of that every day—with their chaos, their love, their unshakable presence. They were the ones who pulled back when I was on the verge of falling apart. They were my foundation.
And maybe that was the biggest lesson of all: I didn’t want to give soone that kind of power over ever again. No one should be able to break the way he did. Not him. Not anyone.
I was done letting love be the thing that undid .
With a respectful bow of his head, Zen followed Cole out.
The door closed with a soft click.
And that was it.
He was gone.
Again.
And probably for good.
Silence stretched over the room like a heavy fog. No one spoke. My brothers just looked at , unsure whether to comfort or give space.
My mother fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. My father stared blankly at the door, jaw clenched.
"I’m okay," I said, forcing the words out like they weren’t shards of glass. "I just need . . . a minute."
Dean opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but Damien tugged him back by the collar and steered both him and Dante toward the kitchen.
My parents hesitated, then quietly slipped away too.
Leaving alone.
The living room felt colder now. Quieter. Like all the warmth we’d built in the past few days had been sucked out by that brief encounter.
I sank onto the couch, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. My heart was pounding too fast, like it hadn’t caught up to the fact that the storm had passed. That he was really gone.
For good.
And yet, it didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like mourning.
I buried my face in the pillow and exhaled shakily.
Months ago, I thought I’d never survive the pain of Cole walking away. That the empty space he left behind would swallow whole.
But ti had passed. My family had pulled out of the wreckage. I had learned to smile again. Laugh. Breathe without hurting.
Still . . . seeing him again—hearing his voice, looking into those storm-cloud eyes—it had ripped open scars I didn’t know were still there.
But I didn’t regret my decision.
Not one bit.
Because the truth was, I couldn’t trust him again. Not fully. Not the way I had before.
And love without trust . . . it’s a cage made of silk. Beautiful, but deadly.
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