Page 66 of Broken Desires
“So? Sometimes it makes no sense on paper…” Eva tries to make a point, her words trailing off as she grapples with how to express her thoughts.
Cole, ever the protective man, gently wraps his arm around her, offering a kiss to her temple before turning his attention back to me. “We don’t make sense to a lot of people, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her,” he says, his words filled with conviction.
I exhale deeply, filled with frustration and longing. “That’s nice for you. But you’re not a king.”
Cole raises an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “How dare you? Eva declares me the king of orgasms every night,” he retorts with a proud smirk.
Eva’s quick to reprimand him, a playful slap landing on his arm. “You stop!” she chides, though a blush creeps across her cheeks.
Their banter, so light and carefree, draws a genuine laugh from me—the first since my heart-wrenching conversation with Alexander’s adviser.
I try to rationalize my decision to them and perhaps more to myself. “It was never supposed to be serious, you know. Liam—Alexander—or whatever, wasn’t looking for commitment, and I have my own path to follow.” The words taste bitter, an attempt to convince myself as much as them.
The tension that follows tells me they understand, or at least they accept my reasoning. They know, as I do, that a fairy tale ending isn’t always realistic.
But there’s more I wish I could explain—that staying isn’t just about us. It’s about the external factors—the pressures and expectations that neither love nor determination can always overcome. His world, with its advisers, its traditions, and its relentless public eye, isn’t just challenging; it’s potentially suffocating.
I know in my heart that this decision, painful as it is, is the right one. To leave now, with love still untarnished by the inevitable hardships and public scrutiny, feels like the only way to preserve what we have, no matter how fleeting. Walking away with the bittersweet “what could have beens” is a form of self-preservation, a way to hold on to the love and memories without the added weight of regret and what could inevitably turn into resentment.
I turn toward the window, looking at the endless sky, and as if life wanted to offer me a small reprieve, I fall asleep.
Once back home, I decide it’s time to compartmentalize everything that happened and move forward. It’s a coping mechanism I’ve mastered over the years; not necessarily the healthiest, but effective for me. My routine becomes my anchor: preparing for the upcoming academic year, transitioning from the emptiness of my apartment to the studio where I dance and immerse myself in the job hunt for September.
Ditching my headphones, I no longer feel the need to shield myself from the world or pretend in any way. My deafness isn’t something to hide or be ashamed of. If people choose to see that as my defining feature, that’s on them, not me.
During a job interview at a local sandwich shop close to campus, the older lady assessing me scans me from head to toe. My gothic style has mellowed; I still embrace dark colors, but I’m no longer using my appearance as armor.
“Well, I’m deaf, so it might be challenging if I’m not in direct eye contact with customers. I’d prefer working in the back, preparing sandwiches, but I’m adaptable if needed,” I explain to her when addressing the job’s requirements.
She nods, jotting down notes. “That’s good to know for scheduling.”
Her acceptance prompts me to ask, “Does this mean I have the job?”
“On a trial basis, yes. Be here tomorrow at nine. You haven’t worked in this field before; actually, you haven’t worked at all, so I just need to see that you can stick to a schedule and follow instructions.”
Grateful, I stand. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”
Her smile is reassuring, and she makes sure to maintain eye contact. “I’m sure I won’t. See you tomorrow.”
The interaction leaves me feeling unexpectedly validated. There was no awkward dance around my deafness, no veiled pity—just straightforward communication, a stark contrast to the attitudes I’ve encountered with my family and their acquaintances. As I walk away, frustration toward my family surfaces, reinforced by the freedom I’ve felt since distancing myself from their overbearing influence.
I have barely heard from them since Liam’s rescue mission in California, and, all in all, I feel so much better for it.
Those thoughts, once sweet, now carry a tinge of pain, reminding me of what I’ve chosen to leave behind. My resolve to not think about him is tested daily. Every small success—like getting this job—feels bittersweet because I instinctively want to share it with him, to hear his encouragement or see the pride in his eyes.
But then I remember why I made this decision. I want to text him, though, and ask him how he’s doing, but it feels wrong. I broke his heart when I walked away, and it is not his responsibility to ease my aching guilt and my doubts.
I’m taken aback when I find Eva and Poppy at the apartment when I get home.
“Hi?” I try with a frown. “What are you girls doing here?”
“We live here.”
I roll my eyes and plop on the sofa across from them. “On paper, maybe, but…” I point to Eva. “You’re a married woman, and your husband is a whiny bitch if you leave his bed just for one night.”
“He is,” Poppy confirms, and Eva rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.
“As for you, you’re looking for properties with Ethan, and you’ve not slept here at all in the week we’ve been back.” I narrow my eyes at them. “I’m suspecting an intervention.” My tone is only somewhat serious; bracing for whatever reason has brought them back to our shared space so suddenly.