Page 23 of Say You'll Stay
My phone erupts in a frenzy of notifications, an endless cascade of likes and comments. Somebody’s shared one of my latest pieces, and it’s gone viral.
Hands trembling, I scroll through the outpouring, drinking in the words of praise from strangers whose can relate to all the fucked up humor, and release of emotions I’ve poured into my art.
A bittersweet victory, this unexpected success. Validation of my talents, yes, but a complete different to the personal turmoil still threatening to drown me.
Part of me longs to share this triumph with Mom or Louis, those pillars of unwavering support. But the mere thought of opening up, baring my inner demons…no, I couldn’t.
“I can already hear Sonya’s squeals of joy,” I mutter to myself, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. But the brief flicker of levity is quickly extinguished by the harsh reality. How can I possibly explain the shadows that haunt me, the lingering unease that refuses to let go?
Just last night, as I stumbled half-asleep to the bathroom, I swear I saw a figure retreat from the edge of my bed, vanishing into the inky darkness like a specter. The phantom touch of that unwanted presence still lingers on my skin, a shiver of revulsion coursing through me.
Confusion and fear battle within, leaving me unmoored, unbalanced in the one place I should feel safest. I want to confide in my loved ones, seek their comfort and reassurance. But stubborn pride, my armor against June’s rejection, holds me back. I can’t appear weak , broken in their eyes - not when I’ve fought so hard to keep my head above water.
So I trudge onward, burying myself in my work - a tenuous lifeline, a fragile raft adrift in the stormy seas of my personal turmoil. It’s mine , a sanctuary where I can momentarily escape the shadows that haunt my every step. The scratch of pencil against paper, the soft whisper of paint on canvas - these are the sounds that drown out the chaos, if only for a little while.
The accolades keep pouring in, a stream of validation that should fill me with pride and a sense of accomplishment. Yet, as I read through the comments, I can’t help but wonder - what would June think? Would he be pleased, proud, of the success I’ve found, or would it only serve as a painful reminder of the distance that now yawns between us?
The ache of missing him is a constant, a phantom limb I can’t seem to excise from the very fabric of my being. I miss him, ache for him, with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. And in the quiet moments, when the din of the city fades and my defenses are lowered, I find myself reaching for the phone, fingers poised to dial his number, to plead for his forgiveness, his return.
But reason and pride always win out, snatching the device from my grasp before I can make that fateful call. I can’t - won’t - be the one to initiate contact, not when the memory of his cold dismissal still burns like acid in my veins. If June wants me back, if he still harbors even a glimmer of the love we once shared, then he must be the one to bridge the chasm that now separates us.
The shadows linger, a menacing presence that sets my nerves on edge with every passing day. I find myself jumping at sudden noises, my gaze constantly sweeping the room, searching for any sign of the unwanted watcher that seems to dog my every move.
“Get a grip, Cara,” I chide myself, running a hand through my tangled hair in frustration. “It’s just your imagination running wild. There’s no one there.”
But the words ring hollow, even to my own ears. It’s maddening , this growing paranoia, this all-consuming fear that someone - something - is out there, watching, waiting. I long to confide in Louis, to seek his steadfast support and counsel, but the stubborn pride that has become my armor refuses to let me appear weak, vulnerable in his eyes.
And so, I soldier on, a fragile façade of strength masking the turmoil that threatens to consume me from within. The viral acclaim for my work brings me no true joy, only a hollow echo of accomplishment that is quickly drowned out by the ever-present specter of my personal demons.
June’s absence is a gaping wound, a void that no amount of professional success can ever hope to fill. I find myself aching for his presence, his steady support, the way his mere existence seemed to ground me, to anchor me in a world that has become increasingly unsteady, untrustworthy.
“Ugh, get it together, Cara,” I groan, flopping back onto the bed and burying my face in his pillow, still faintly scented with the lingering traces of him. “He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. Time to move the fuck on.”
But the words ring hollow, a desperate attempt to convince myself of a truth I’m not ready to accept. June is gone , lost to me, a victim of my own stubborn pride and the cruel machinations of fate.
Chapter ten
Desperation clings to me like a second skin as I melt into the shadows, my eyes boring into the entrance of Cara’s tiny home. Every fiber of my being is consumed by an all-encompassing need to see her.
To be near her - even as the rational part of my mind screams that this is wrong, that I’m crossing lines I can never return from.
But in the twisted maze of my mind, where grief and obsession intertwine, rationality has no place, lost in the labyrinth…trapped in limbo. The doctors’ words replay on a loop, a mocking refrain: “A few days, at most.” My father, the indomitable Magnus Deveaux, reduced to a ticking clock, his life measured in fleeting hours.
And so I cling to this obsession, this sickening surveillance, as if Cara’s presence, even stolen through a lens, can somehow fill the yawning chasm that my father’s impending death has carved into my soul.
When she finally emerges, my heart seizes in my chest. But she’s not alone. That man— the sight of this nameless thief, walks beside her, their bodies moving in a way that speaks of intimacy, of a bond that I can scarcely bear to acknowledge.
It’s in the way both bodies orbit each other with a casual intimacy that rakes across my raw nerves like shards of glass. Their laughter cuts through me like a jagged blade, a parody of the music Cara and I once made together, rips through me, shredding me from the inside out.
Staggering back, I choke on the bitter tang of bile and impotent rage threatening to drag me under.
Somehow, I make it to my car, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, as if this small act of physical control could stabilize the world crumbling beneath my feet.
The journey back to the office is a blur of neon smears and blaring horns, the cacophony of the city drowned out by the tempest raging in my skull. Thoughts of my father’s imminent demise, the empire’s decay, and the sickening certainty that I’ve lost the only light in my darkness all bleed together, a noose of despair tightening around my throat with each labored breath.
I practically fall into my office chair, a marionette with tangled strings, as the walls close in, the very air thick with the weight of my failures.
But amidst the maelstrom of misery, one truth emerges with crystal clarity: Cara is mine, now and forever, and I will move heaven and hell to bind her to me, to make her see that our fates are irrevocably entwined.