The chapel was dimly lit, the scent of fresh flowers mixing with the faint aroma of burning candles. Soft murmurs filled the air, the kind spoken in hushed tones out of respect for the dead. Nerissa stood near the casket, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes swollen from hours of silent crying.
Drake stepped into the room, his tall figure catching her attention immediately. His presence alone was enough to make her chest tighten. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Nerissa… we need to talk," he said softly, his voice heavy with concern.
She hesitated but nodded. "Not here, Drake… please."
But Drake ignored her plea. He moved closer and took her trembling hands into his, as though trying to anchor her in the storm. "You shouldn't be alone in this. I'm here for you, no matter what happens."
Before she could stop him, Drake pulled her into a comforting embrace. Nerissa froze, caught between grief, confusion, and the sudden warmth of his arms.
And that was when it happened.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of George — standing in the doorway, his expression dark and unreadable at first… until it twisted into something raw. Pain. Betrayal. Anger.
In two strides, George was in front of them. "What the hell is this?!" His voice boomed through the quiet room, drawing the attention of a few mourners.
"George, it's not what you—" Nerissa began, but her words were cut off when George's fist connected sharply with Drake's jaw. The sickening thud echoed, and Drake staggered back, wiping blood from the corner of his lip.
"You son of a—!" Drake growled, but Nerissa quickly stepped between them, her palms pressed against George's chest.
"Stop it! Please!" she cried, her voice trembling.
But George wasn't listening. His eyes were still fixed on Drake with a fury that could burn. Then, without warning, he shoved Nerissa back — not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stumble a few steps away.
"Don't touch me right now, Nerissa," George said in a low, dangerous voice. "I can't even look at you."
The weight of his words crushed her. She stood there, breathless, as George turned away, his shoulders rigid, his hands still clenched into fists. Drake glared at him, but didn't move to follow.
The wake went silent again, but the damage had already been done — and Nerissa knew there was no undoing it.
George stormed out of the chapel, his steps heavy and unsteady, as if each one carried the weight of the hurt he was trying to hold in. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, drumming against the pavement and soaking him within seconds.
"George!" Nerissa's voice rang out behind him. She ran after him, her dress clinging to her legs, her hair plastered against her face from the rain. She grabbed his arm, desperate to stop him.
"Please—just listen to me," she pleaded, breathless.
But George spun around, his eyes glistening with something far more painful than anger. "Listen? You want me to listen? I've been listening, Nerissa. I've been patient. I've been trying—God, I've been trying to be the man you could lean on!"
Tears mixed with raindrops on her cheeks. "It's not what you think—"
"Then what is it?!" he cut her off, his voice cracking. "Because what I saw back there—him holding you like that—it killed me. Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch the woman you love let another man hold her?"
She shook her head, trembling. "George, please—"
"No!" His voice thundered above the rain. "I need to know. Right here. Right now. For once in your life, Nerissa, choose me. Not because you pity me, not because it's convenient—choose me because you want me!"
Her lips parted, but no words came. The rain seemed louder now, like the world itself was holding its breath for her answer. George's chest rose and fell sharply, his hands clenched at his sides as if bracing for whatever she would say.
"I…" Her voice faltered. She wanted to tell him she still loved him, that she had never stopped. But the image of Drake's worried face flashed in her mind, clouding her thoughts.
George's jaw tightened. "You can't even say it." His voice broke into a bitter laugh, though there was nothing funny about it. "That's all I needed to know."
He stepped back, his gaze never leaving hers. "I've fought for you for so long, Nerissa. I've swallowed my pride, begged for your forgiveness, tried to be the man you needed. But I can't fight for someone who won't fight for me."
Her knees felt weak. "George… don't walk away. Please."
He looked at her one last time, the pain in his eyes deeper than any wound she had ever seen. "You already did," he whispered.
Then he turned, walking into the curtain of rain until he vanished from sight—leaving Nerissa standing there, alone, with the sound of her own heartbeat pounding louder than the storm.
Nerissa stood frozen in the rain, her chest heaving, as George's figure faded into the misty downpour. She barely noticed when a pair of footsteps splashed toward her from behind.
"Nerissa." Drake's voice was softer than the rain, but urgent. He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering as if he wanted to shield her from more than just the cold.
"Come with me," he urged, his voice almost pleading. "You don't have to stand here and drown in his rejection. You've been hurt enough. Let me take care of you, Nerissa… please."
She shook her head weakly, but Drake stepped closer. "You saw how he looked at you. You saw how he walked away. He doesn't deserve another chance to break you."
Her lips quivered. "Drake… I can't. Not like this."
His jaw tensed, frustration glinting in his eyes. "Then when? When will you stop letting him hurt you? When will you let someone love you the way you deserve?" He searched her face for any sign that she would say yes. But all she gave him was silence, her gaze fixed on the direction George had gone.
Finally, Drake sighed and stepped back, defeated. "One day, Nerissa… you'll realize I was the one who stayed." He turned and walked away, leaving her trembling in the rain.
The night was deep and still when George stirred. A faint moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. He turned slightly, half-awake, and felt it—her presence.
At first, he thought he was dreaming. But then, in the quiet, he heard the faint, almost imperceptible sound of her breathing. Nerissa was there. Behind him.
He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. All day he had tried to be strong, to keep his distance, to protect whatever was left of his pride. But feeling her there—close, yet silent—was undoing him.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, he shifted onto his back. Nerissa's eyes were open, glistening in the faint light. She froze, unsure if he would push her away.
Instead, George whispered, his voice low and rough from sleep.
"You didn't have to stay."
Her lips trembled, but she shook her head. "I… wanted to."
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. No accusations. No questions. Just the truth of how much they still cared hanging between them.
George reached out, hesitantly, and brushed the hair from her face. "You make it so hard for me to hate you," he murmured, his voice breaking.
Nerissa's breath caught. "Then… don't."
His hand lingered against her cheek, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, pressing her face against his chest. His heartbeat was heavy, unsteady, but real.
They didn't speak again. They didn't need to. Wrapped in each other's warmth, they let sleep take them—not as two people fighting, but as two souls clinging to whatever was left between them.
The night was deep and still when George stirred. A faint moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. He turned slightly, half-awake, and felt it—her presence.
At first, he thought he was dreaming. But then, in the quiet, he heard the faint, almost imperceptible sound of her breathing. Nerissa was there. Behind him.
He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. All day he had tried to be strong, to keep his distance, to protect whatever was left of his pride. But feeling her there—close, yet silent—was undoing him.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, he shifted onto his back. Nerissa's eyes were open, glistening in the faint light. She froze, unsure if he would push her away.
Instead, George whispered, his voice low and rough from sleep.
"You didn't have to stay."
Her lips trembled, but she shook her head. "I… wanted to."
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. No accusations. No questions. Just the truth of how much they still cared hanging between them.
George reached out, hesitantly, and brushed the hair from her face. "You make it so hard for me to hate you," he murmured, his voice breaking.
Nerissa's breath caught. "Then… don't."
His hand lingered against her cheek, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, pressing her face against his chest. His heartbeat was heavy, unsteady, but real.
They didn't speak again. They didn't need to. Wrapped in each other's warmth, they let sleep take them—not as two people fighting, but as two souls clinging to whatever was left between them.
The morning was hushed, almost sacred, as though the world itself understood the weight in their hearts. The pale light of dawn spilled gently through the curtains, touching the small dining table where they sat. Neither spoke much; words felt too fragile for the heaviness they carried.
George sat close, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders, his warmth anchoring her to the present. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple before murmuring in a voice that trembled ever so slightly, "Love…"
She turned to him, meeting his gaze—a gaze that carried sorrow, longing, and unspoken promises. Her fingers slid into his, holding tight beneath the table. The faint clinking of cutlery, the steam from their coffee, the simple act of sharing bread—everything felt slow, almost suspended in time.
When their breakfast was done, George lingered a moment longer before rising. He didn't release her hand, not even for a second, as they prepared themselves for what lay ahead. His grip was warm but firm, as if to say, I'm here. We face this together.
The funeral car was waiting outside. The ride was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the sound of her shallow breathing. George never stopped holding her hand; his thumb stroked the back of it gently, a silent reassurance.
When they arrived at the cemetery, the air felt colder. The sky was heavy with clouds, as though ready to break into tears. Friends and family had gathered, their murmured condolences floating in the wind. George guided her forward, his arm slipping around her once again, shielding her from the crowd's pitying stares. He noticed his Dad arrived but never gives attention to him.
As the priest's voice rose in prayer, her eyes blurred. George, sensing her trembling, drew her closer until her head rested against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat—a steady, calming rhythm in the chaos of grief.
When it came time to lay the casket into the earth, George's grip on her tightened. His voice was low, almost breaking, when he whispered, "It's all right, love. I'm here… we'll get through this." Tears fall down from her eyes, not because she was dying inside but because she saw he was trying his best to comforts her even he needed it the most.
The first shovelful of earth hit the coffin with a dull thud, and she flinched. George's arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her as though he could absorb her pain. They stood there together, hand in hand, until the last prayer was said and the last flower placed.
Walking away from the grave, neither spoke. But their fingers were still intertwined, their steps in sync. In the silence, they knew—they had each other. And that was enough to face the days ahead not knowing the chaos was about to test them again..