Page 50 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

And yet, I still can’t let go. God, how I wish I could.

This has always been me — chasing the kind of love that was never mine to begin with. Trying to become someone worth loving. But I was always background noise to the people I wanted to matter to. Always nothing.

I bent myself into shapes just to fit in — guessing what they thought, what they felt, trying to stay one step ahead of their rejection. I’d imagine they hated me just so I could pull away first. All I ever did was sabotage myself. No one needed to ruin me. I beat them to it.

And him… I tried. From the moment he showed up at my door, I tried to understand him. Tried to figure out what love looked like to him, just so I could wear it like a second skin. But you can’tmakesomeone love you. You can’t twist yourself into someone else’s version of enough.

He didn’t love. He obsessed. There’s a difference.

And now his obsession has me locked away.

A cage. Four walls. No key. What’s next — chains?

I wanted to scream, to tear open the silence and make him see me. But he already knew I was here. That’s what made it worse. He knew — and chose not to care.

He didn’t lie to me. He showed me exactly who he was. I just kept closing my eyes.

I sealed my eyes shut, convinced blindness was safer than truth. At least with him, I had a roof. Now I’d trade that roof for freedom in a heartbeat.

I didn’t know what I wanted — not really. But I know what Ididn’twant:

Someone too broken to not break me, too lost to see me, too cruel to stop.

I am a joke.

I let him destroy me.

He destroyed me beautifully, and I thanked him for it.

FOURTEEN

LENORE

Exhaustionknockedmeout.I don’t even remember falling asleep. But I woke up at the sound of chains rattling in the air. When I blinked my eyes open, a single red rose was on the floor beside me.

I once read that if you want a rose, you have to learn to love its thorns.

Was this his idea of love?

Here I was again—second-guessing myself like a fool. And still, my heart held onto some small, stubborn hope. Because Ididcry for him. Ididlove him. I still do.

Back when I had no home, when I ran from the one I had, I used to imagine he’d come for me. My prince on a white horse, riding in to rescue me. He was supposed to be my happy ending.

And now? I’m clinging to hope for a damn horse.

Is this karma? If it is, what sin am I paying for? Or maybe my life’s just been one long, cruel joke. A story written in spite, not love.

When I first met him, I didn’t even know what love meant. But I looked at him and Isawit—or thought I did. After so many jerks, and so many lies, I clung to the illusion. I spun the fantasy over and over: him waiting for me in a little cottage on a lonely hill, far from the world. I’d run into his arms, he’d lift me like I weighed nothing, carry me inside. We’d make love. He’d call me his, I’d call him mine. The next morning, we’d walk hand-in-hand, talking shit about everyone else and laughing, just us, real and raw. Our own tiny universe, untouched.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Is it really that easy to dream a better life? Maybe that’s why I slept so much. In dreams, I was safe. In dreams, I didn’t have to wake up and face the truth.

And now that I’ve seen him again... he’s nothing like the version I kept locked in my head. That version, the one I made up—I misshim.I miss that stupid first love, that soft illusion. Not the man standing here now.

Even roses feel empty. Just flowers. And me? Just a person. A person who wants, and needs to be seen, to be loved, to beunderstood.

I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting. Troy was gone. I guess he was getting rid of them now.

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