PRESENT
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THEO'S POV
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The sun had long left the sky, leaving behind a deep, almost bruised shade of blue. The world outside my window looked heavy, weighed down by dark clouds wrapping themselves around the moon like a black velvet blanket. The light that should have guided the night was buried, smothered. It felt fitting. My own chest carried the same kind of weight.
On the bedside table, the car key lay still. Harmless in shape, yet loud in temptation. Its shine caught my eye like a whisper that wouldn't fade.
Take the car and go.
Go to Melina.
See her. Tell her what you both were, what you both had.
The thoughts kept circling, tormenting me, as if some version of myself was sitting inside my mind, shouting, begging me to break. I pressed my lips tight, forcing myself to resist.
"To love is to let go," I kept telling that voice. A broken prayer. A lie I was trying too hard to believe.
But the self that ached for Melina refused to shut up.
Even her name burned. Even the thought of her face made my ribs hurt. I didn't dare say her name out loud, not in this house. Not when even silence was heavy here. But my hands betrayed me anyway, reaching on their own to the chain hanging around my neck.
The pendant—shaped like the letter M—pressed cold against my skin. The gift she had given me once. Such a small thing. Yet it held enough power to twist me apart. It burned deep inside me, but on the surface it felt soft, grounding.
What have you done to me, Melina?
What spell did you leave on me?
I wanted to ask her that. I wanted to scream it into the night.
"Come, have food, son," my mother's voice broke into the silence. Gentle, but tired. The kind of tone that didn't need sight—I already knew it was her.
"Not hungry, Mum." My eyes stayed on the sky.
She didn't fight me. She didn't push. She simply left, footsteps fading, the air settling back into quiet. She was used to this by now—me skipping meals, only eating when pain forced me to. She was used to watching me fade, bit by bit, while pretending she didn't notice.
But I knew it hurt her. I knew she wanted to see me whole again.
If it were Melina, she would have scolded me. She would have stomped her foot, tip-toed just high enough to pinch my ear, teasing me until I laughed and gave in. The memory made the back of my eyes sting. I blinked hard, but tears still pooled, waiting, heavy.
Realising along with her memory, My smile have also vanished.
A sigh broke free.
I left my room, dragging myself down the stairs. I had barely reached the landing when I froze.
"I liked her a lot too," my mother's words floated into the hall, tone quite as if she is scared if someone hears it.
Melina. They were talking about Melina.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
"Actually, she stopped by at the café," Mum continued.
The words slammed into me like a fist. I almost lost my balance on the step. She… she came? To the café?
Why? When? wasn't I there? Why did I miss it?
My throat closed up..., a stone lodged deep.
"Why are you standing there? Come down, let's have dinner," Dad's voice boomed from behind, snapping me out of my daze. He brushed past me, walking down the stairs without a care.
I followed. Because that's what I had learned—better to follow, better to obey.
At the dining table, Zara and Mum stopped talking the moment I sat. Zara's eyes clung to me, searching, but I avoided them. Dad's gaze, on the other hand, was sharp, moving between the three of us like a hawk circling prey. He knew. He could sense when he wasn't the center of the world.
Adjusting his spectacles before grabbing the fork--
"I already told you not to talk about that girl in this home," he said, firm, final, like a judge delivering a sentence.
Mum's head bowed. "We weren't talking about her," she whispered, shrinking in front of him.
I hated that. I hated seeing her make herself so small before him—as if he was a king and we were beggars at his feet.
"Good," Dad said, voice rising. "Thank goodness she forgot about you all. I never liked her to begin with." He laughed then. Actually laughed.
The sound scraped against my skin. The empty wine glasses on the table glimmered in the light, arranged neatly as if mocking me. They looked like weapons waiting to be used. I wanted to grab one, smash it, wake him up from his smugness.
"And you, Theo," he continued, turning to me. "You graduated, it's been a while now. I've been keeping a position for you in the company. You need to prepare yourself—we'll want you to join anytime." He chewed loudly, sloppily, as if his words weren't already suffocating.
"And forget about that Merina girl. She doesn't remember you anyway."
"Melina," I muttered, correcting him, jaw clenched, fists tight around my fork.
"Same thing."
Thing. He said it like she was an object. A replaceable mistake.
Rage flared in me, so loud it nearly shook my bones. Every part of me screamed to leap across the table, to knock his teeth out, to finally make him feel something.
But he kept talking. " Since now everything is over—gladly— I invited Angela to come home."
"For?" Mum asked, her voice weak, nervous.
"Questioning me?" His eyebrow rose, and just like that she fell silent.
I burned.
Then, as if it wasn't enough , after he finished the food on the plate —he stood up. He walked toward me, smug. He reached out. His fork hooked the pendant around my neck—the one thing that still tethered me to her. For a moment, the chain lifted, swinging, shining.
He smirked. "Pathetic." His voice dripped with disgust. He let go, turned, and walked away.
That was it. Something inside me snapped like glass underfoot.
My hand tightened around the fork at my plate. It wasn't just a piece of cutlery anymore. It was weight. It was fire. It was the only weapon in my reach.
The metal dug into my palm, my knuckles white. My breath grew heavy, chest pounding as if the air itself was screaming at me to move.
I rose from my chair.
The voices at the table blurred into noise. Zara's wide eyes, Mum's trembling breath—they all faded into the background.
All I saw was him. His broad back. His laugh echoing in the air like poison. The man who broke everything good and walked away without a scratch.
Memories flashed like lightning.
Melina's laugh.
Her small hand in mine.
The way she tilted her head when teasing me.
The way she'd scold me if she saw me starving myself.
The chair she sat in at the café, waiting, while I wasn't there.
Each memory pushed me closer to the edge.
My mother's eyes lifted then, and for the first time I saw real fear in them. Not sadness, not worry—fear. Fear of me.
Zara's breath caught in her throat, a shaky sound.
But I didn't stop.
The fork gleamed under the dining light. My fingers trembled, but not from weakness. From too much. From holding back too long.
I stepped forward. The floor creaked beneath me, loud in the silence.
He turned slightly, still chuckling at some thought in his head, still full of himself.
He didn't see me. He didn't see the storm I had become.
Another step.
The fork sharp in my hand, pointed, ready.
And for the first time in years, I didn't care about consequences. I only cared about ending this moment.
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