I walked back to my hostel in a daze.
My legs moved on autopilot, carrying me through campus while my mind replayed every moment of the meeting. His face. His voice. His eyes.
I want another chance.
The words echoed in my head with every step.
By the time I reached my room, the sun was starting to set. Golden light streamed through the window, painting everything in warm tones.
I sat on my bed, still in my clothes from the café, and just... existed. Suspended between past and present. Between who I was and who I'd become.
My phone rang, shattering the silence.
My roommate.
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
"Hey! How did it go?" Her voice was bright, eager. "Did you tell him off? Are you okay?"
A smile spread across my face. Involuntary. Unbidden.
"It was good," I heard myself say.
"Good? That's it? Come on, I need details. What did he say? What did you say? Did he apologize?"
"Yeah, he... he apologized."
"And?"
"And I have to go," I said quickly. "I'll tell you later, okay?"
"Wait, but—"
I hung up before she could finish.
I sat there for a moment, phone in hand, that smile still on my face.
Why was I smiling?
I'd gone there to confront him. To tell him how he'd destroyed me. To get closure.
Instead, I felt... lighter. Hopeful, even.
What is wrong with me?
I stood up slowly and began to undress.
Each piece of clothing fell to the floor—the jeans I'd changed into four times, the top I'd chosen because it made me look confident, the bra that I'd worn like armor.
All of it, pooling at my feet.
I walked to the bathroom naked, turned on the shower, and stepped under the spray.
The water was hot. Almost too hot. But I didn't adjust it.
I let it cascade over me, washing away the tension, the anxiety, the confusion.
I closed my eyes.
And there he was.
Not the memory of pain. Not the blood or the force or the fear.
Just... him. The way he looked today. The sunset eyes. The pretty boy face. The smile that still made my stomach flip.
In my mind, he was here with me.
I could almost feel his presence behind me. Could almost hear his voice, low and warm against my ear.
"You're so beautiful."
My hand moved to my breast, gentle and exploratory. The way his hand had been that second night before everything went wrong.
"I've been thinking about you."
My breathing quickened. I let my hand drift lower, over my stomach, between my thighs.
This was different from last time. Last time, fear had won. Last time, the trauma had been too fresh.
But now...
I could feel him. Could imagine his lips on my neck, his hands on my body. Could hear that lovely voice whispering things that made me ache.
My body responded. Melted into the fantasy. Reached for the pleasure that had been stolen from me.
For a moment—just a brief moment—the fear flashed across my mind. The memory of pain. The association of this feeling with blood and violence.
But I pushed it away. Ignored it. Focused instead on the memory of his smile today, his apology, his request for another chance.
This could be different. He could be different.
My fingers moved faster. The pleasure built. The water pounded against my skin as I chased the feeling.
And when I finished—when my body finally released all that pent-up tension—I gasped his name into the steam.
Not a whisper this time. A full-throated acknowledgment of who I was thinking about. Who I wanted.
I stood there under the spray for several minutes after, catching my breath.
"That was the best day of my life," I whispered to no one.
And I meant it. He had reclaimed something I thought was lost forever.
Because of him. Because seeing him had reminded my body what desire felt like.
I cleaned myself up properly then. Washed my hair, scrubbed my skin, erased the physical evidence of what I'd just done.
But the feeling lingered.
Back in my room, I made myself a small meal. Nothing elaborate—just noodles and some fruit. But I ate it with an appetite I hadn't had in months.
Then I did my skincare routine. The full one. The one I'd abandoned during the worst of my depression.
Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer.
Each step felt like a ritual. Like I was preparing myself for something. Becoming someone new.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My skin glowed. My eyes were bright. I looked... happy.
Actually, genuinely happy.
When was the last time I'd looked like this? Before all these issue, probably. Before everything changed.
But here I was, looking like the girl I used to be. The one who smiled easily and believed good things could happen.
I settled onto my bed, pulled out my headphones, and scrolled through my music.
Found the song. His song. The one he'd played for me on our night drive. The one he said reminded him of me.
I'd deleted it from my playlists months ago. But I still remembered the name.
I hit play.
The opening notes filled my ears and suddenly I was back there.
In his car. His hand holding mine. The city lights blurring past. Him looking at me like I was something precious.
"This is my baby."
The videos we made, laughing and kissing for the camera. The way he'd send them to me randomly, making me smile in the middle of boring lectures.
The late-night calls where we'd talk about everything and nothing. Where he'd tell me about his dreams and I'd share mine.
The way he'd look at me. Really look at me. Like he saw something in me that no one else did.
The memories flooded back, vivid and overwhelming.
And for those few minutes, I forgot.
Forgot the blood. Forgot the pain. Forgot the trauma and the nightmares and the ten months of healing.
All I remembered was the good. The beautiful. The possibility of us.
Then the song ended.
And reality crashed back in.
He'd hurt me. Violated my boundaries. Taken something I'd valued more than anything.
Then he'd pulled away when I wanted commitment. Left me bleeding and broken and alone.
For ten months, he hadn't checked on me. Hadn't cared if I was okay. Hadn't reached out once.
Until today.
Until I'd confronted him.
And now, suddenly, he wanted another chance?
I sat there, headphones still in, as my mind spiraled.
I want another chance.
Did he mean it? Could he have changed? Could we actually build something real from the ashes of what he'd destroyed?
Or was this just another manipulation? Another way to pull me back in and use me up until he got bored again?
My body said yes. God, my body was screaming yes. It had responded to him in ways it hadn't responded to anything in months. Had remembered pleasure and desire and connection.
But my mind hesitated. Listed all the reasons this was a terrible idea. All the ways he could hurt me again.
And my heart... my heart was torn completely in half.
I thought about kelvin. Sweet, patient kelvin who'd never pushed. Who'd been there when I needed support without expecting anything in return.
But kelvin didn't make me feel like this. Didn't make my stomach flip or my body ache. Didn't consume my thoughts the way he did.
Was that love? Or was that trauma bonding?
I didn't know anymore.
I picked up my phone and opened our message thread.
His last text was from today: Think about it. That's all I'm asking.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What did I want to say?
Yes, I'll give you another chance. Let's try again.
Or:
No, I can't do this. You hurt me too badly.
Both answers felt true. Both answers felt impossible.
I was stuck. Suspended between two versions of my future.
One where I took the risk, gave him another chance, and maybe—maybe—found something beautiful.
Another where I protected myself, walked away, and spent the rest of my life wondering "what if?"
I stared at my phone screen, the cursor blinking in the empty message box.
Yes or no.
Stay or go.
Risk or safety.
Him or me.
I took a deep breath.
Made my decision.
Started typing.
well....