Page 8 of Angel
The breaking point comes on a Thursday. I’m in the kitchen measuring chia seeds into yogurt when Angel walks in early. Too early. His expression is tight. Something coiled and dangerous under his skin.
“Carrie stopped me today,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Okay?”
“She’s worried about you.”
I sit straighter. Defensive.
“I’m fine.”
“She says you won’t answer her texts.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“She says you’ve been avoidin’ everyone.”
“I don’t owe anyone my grief,” I snap.
He rubs a hand over his face.
“This isn’t grief, Stevie. This is an obsession.” The word slices deep.
“You don’t get to say that.”
“I do when I’m watchin’ you disappear.”
“I’m trying to save us!” I shout. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Because you’re losin’ yourself,” he fires back. “And I’m losin’ you anyway.”
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and final. I feel it then, the shift, the crack. Like something fragile just splintered.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
I grab my keys and my jacket, hands shaking.
“Where are you goin’?” he asks.
“I just need space.”
The word tastes like betrayal and relief all at once. He looks like I just punched him. And maybe I did. But if I stay, we’ll say worse.
I walk past him and out the door. The air outside is cold and sharp and honest. I don’t look back. Because if I do, I might break.
And if I break… I won’t have anything left to try with.
Chapter Four
Angel
The door slams harder than it needs to. Not because she’s angry, but because she’s done holding it together. I stand in the middle of the living room with the echo still ringing in my ears, watching the space where she was, like I might see her again if I stare hard enough. The keys jangle once as she tosses them on the side table on her way out, then nothing.
Just the low hum of the fridge. The quiet tick of the clock and the sound of my own breathing, too loud in a house that suddenly feels way too fuckin’ big.
She didn’t take a bag. Didn’t grab clothes or makeup or the damn vitamins lined up on the counter like a shrine. Just her jacket. Her phone. And whatever piece of herself she’s been trying to protect by not looking at me anymore.
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
