I shift on my bed, discomfort twisting deep in my stomach. Nausea lingers, heavy and persistent, as I stare at the thin line of light slipping through the curtains.
I turn again, gripping my pillow tighter as a cold breeze seeps into the room.
Rain must have fallen last night.
The thought comes slowly, like everything else in my body.
I force myself up.
Weak.
Too weak.
But the fever has eased—I can feel it in the absence of that burning ache. My fingers brush over my bare arm, goosebumps rising as the cold settles into my skin.
For a moment, I just sit there.
Blank.
Letting my body catch up with itself.
I reach for the jug on my bedside table, pour a glass of water, and drink slowly. My eyes wander aimlessly across the room—
—and stop.
At the foot of my bed.
A white envelope.
Sealed.
Tied with a red ribbon.
My breath stills.
Red ribbon?
In two years… he has never done that before.
I move before I can think.
Snatching it up, ready to throw it away.
Just like the others.
Just like I promised myself I would.
But my hand stops midair.
No.
I shouldn't read it.
I stopped reading them.
Because he was getting into my head.
Because I could feel myself… slipping.
Yet now—
My fingers tighten around the envelope.
And my mind goes quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
Slowly… I open it.
His handwriting greets me.
Neat. Controlled. Beautiful.
"I know you would read this one, Sarima."
My chest tightens.
"It was very reckless of you to get sick because of me. I would never want you to hurt yourself… and deep down, you know this."
"Don't let this repeat itself."
A hollow laugh leaves me.
He wouldn't want me hurt?
He hurts me in ways no one else can even see.
My eyes move faster now.
Almost desperate.
"How would you like me to deal with Luke?"
Everything in me freezes.
My grip tightens on the paper.
My pulse spikes.
So it wasn't in my head.
It wasn't just me being twisted—wanting him to be there.
He was there.
I lower myself slowly in front of my dressing mirror, staring at my reflection—but not really seeing it.
"Do not stress about meeting me. You will… when the time comes."
My throat dries.
"There's always a time when husband and wife meet."
My breath catches.
"Afràtos."
The word lingers.
Strange. Soft.
Wrong.
I grab my phone with slightly unsteady hands and search it.
Fluffy.
Commonly used to describe food.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes me.
"What…?"
My thoughts begin to twist—
dangerously.
I shake my head quickly.
No.
I drop the letter—
—and that's when I see it.
A hamper.
Placed neatly beside my bed.
Filled with white chocolate.
My favorite.
This time, I don't move.
I just stare.
A slow, creeping realization settles into my chest.
He doesn't just watch me.
He knows me.
I fall back onto the bed, exhaling shakily.
A knock pulls me out of it.
Sharp. Real.
"Come in," I say, forcing my voice steady as I sit up.
The maids enter, carrying fresh white bedding.
"Miss Sarima, your mother requests your presence in the dining room for lunch," the head maid says politely.
I nod absently.
But my attention drifts.
To the trash can.
Before I can stop myself, I'm moving.
Digging through it.
Ignoring the way the maids go quiet behind me.
Ignoring the judgment.
I find it.
The last letter.
Still clean—just crumpled.
Relief floods me too quickly.
Too easily.
I grab it and rush into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a sharp click.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, unfolding the paper carefully this time.
Like it matters.
And I read.
"You looked at the sky today."
"You always do that when you're thinking too much."
"Like the clouds might answer you."
"They won't… but I would."
My breathing slows.
Against my will.
"I stood closer than you think."
"Close enough to hear your breath hitch when the wind touched your neck."
My fingers tighten.
"You thought it was the cold."
"It wasn't."
My heart skips.
"They don't deserve to look at you like I do."
"I like you better when you're unaware."
"Softer. Easier to protect."
A shiver runs down my spine.
"Don't be scared when you start noticing me."
"It just means you're finally paying attention."
"—Yours, always."
Silence fills the room.
My heart beats louder than it should.
Faster than it should.
And I hate the way something inside me responds.
I press my lips together, trying to push the feeling down.
But I already know.
It won't be long before I give in.
Maybe because I've never really been loved.
But still—
This isn't right.
And he's getting to me.
I drop the letter onto the cabinet and turn on the shower.
Warm water spills over my skin, sliding down my back, soaking into my low-porosity hair.
The sound fills the room.
Drowning everything else.
I close my eyes.
Let it take over.
Then—
A hand.
On my shoulder.
My eyes snap open.
I turn sharply.
Nothing.
I reach out, shutting off the shower.
Silence crashes in.
The maids are gone.
The room is empty.
But my heart won't slow down.
I inhale deeply.
Exhale slowly.
Stay calm.
But my mind—
my mind is no longer entirely mine.
I wrap myself in a bathrobe and step out, my movements quicker now.
Uneasy.
I check my phone.
12:47.
I set it down and pick out a black short flare, square-neck silk dress with long net sleeves.
Something simple.
Something controlled.
I slip into white furry slippers, fasten my leg chain, and step out.
The hallway feels longer than usual.
Quieter.
A maid rushes toward me and falls into step behind me.
I don't bother reacting.
The dining room doors open.
Voices.
Laughter.
People.
Too many people.
I step inside—and pause.
The Ellisons.
Of course.
No one told me.
They never do.
I force a smile and walk in, taking the empty seat across from Oliver Ellison, beside my second brother.
"Your daughter has grown into a beautiful young lady," Mrs. Ellison says brightly.
"Indeed," my father agrees.
"How many years has it been?" Mr. Ellison asks.
"Five," a deep voice answers.
I look up.
Oliver.
He meets my gaze and smiles.
I return it automatically.
I look back down at my plate, cutting into the steak.
My appetite is gone—but I chew a large chunk anyway.
My eyes flick toward my mother.
The disapproval is immediate.
Sharp.
I look at my brothers.
Calm. Perfect.
Untouched.
It's easy to see who doesn't belong here.
"They were so close when they were little," Mrs. Ellison laughs softly.
"That's what makes the best pair," my mother adds.
"Their wedding would be the talk of the year," Mrs. Ellison beams.
I freeze.
The words settle slowly.
Too slowly.
My grip tightens around my fork.
Wedding?
My heartbeat quickens—
but not because of Oliver.
Because for a brief, terrifying second…
I wonder what he would think.