Page 97 of Unravelled
Mira blinked and the garden unfolded around her in perfect, aching clarity
Finally, after several paces, Mira broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”
Tharion’s stride didn’t falter, but his breath did. He exhaled, slow and measured, like he was choosing his words with care.
“Me too,” Tharion admitted, no anger in it.
Mira nodded, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. An ache that had been lodged there for months, maybe longer.
“I don’t want to force this with you anymore.” Mira admitted, eyes downcast.
Tharion’s jaw clenched, a flicker of something crossing his face, regret, grief, resignation. She squeezed his hand.
The quiet stretched between them. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that came when something was crumbling, when two people had already let go but hadn’t dared to say the words yet.
The wind rustled the orange and yellowing leaves above them, the decaying scent of leaves and rain hanging thick in the air. It felt like mourning.
Mira slowed her steps, turning slightly toward him, studying his face. She remembered the features she had once memorized through shared laughter andstolen moments of joy. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the way his lips quirked into an almost-boyish grin.
But now, they were unreadable. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his lips pressed into a firm line, as if looking at her would be too much. As if acknowledging what was missing between them would make it real.
She hesitated, but the question was already forming on her lips. “What was your Emberbane desire last night?”
Tharion’s stride faltered. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His fingers curled at his sides, his shoulders tightening as though bracing for impact. His breath shallow, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, raw and unrelenting.
Mira inhaled sharply, the truth sinking like a stone in her chest. "It wasn't me,"
He stiffened, his entire body locking up. The air between them turned brittle, sharp enough to cut. She swallowed, her voice quieter now but no less certain.
"And you weren't mine." The words landed softly, yet their weight pressed down on the space between them. The silence stretched, thin and delicate, as if a single breath could shatter it.
Tharion's eyes found hers, steady despite the tremor in her chest. Tharion’s throat bobbed. She thought, for a fleeting moment, that he might deny it. That he might force a smile, tell her she was wrong, ease the jagged edges of what they both already knew. But he didn’t. He just stood there. Silent.
Mira nodded once, "It’s okay," she murmured, holding his hand with both of hers. "You don’t have to tell me."
Tharion exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before dropping his gaze to the ground. The silence stretched between them, a thin, frayed thread threatening to snap. Tharion's breath misted in the cold air, each exhale shallow and uneven.
Mira held his hand, her grip firm yet gentle, as if her touch alone could bridge the widening chasm between them. Mira let go of his hand slowly, her fingers trailing over his knuckles until there was nothing but the autumn air between them. Her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold the pieces of her heart.
Her voice broke the quiet, a fragile whisper that barely rose above the soft rustle of leaves. “I know you care,” she said gently, each word measured, careful. “But…this isn't good...for either of us.”
Tharion stilled, his broad frame quiet against the gold-and-crimson blur of the autumn garden. Leaves drifted slowly through the air, catching on his shoulders and hair like they, too, weren’t sure where to land.
“I don’t feel like this is what you want. What either of us want...” she added, voice quieter now. There was no accusation. Only the soft ache of truth, of something slipping quietly apart beneath a sky. The admission gutted her, made her feel exposed in a way she hadn't expected. But it also lifted something deep inside, a weight loosening in her chest, even as it broke her.
Tharion stood, staring at the ground. After what felt like an eternity, he exhaled again, slower this time. His shoulders sagged, and when he lifted his gaze, there was a weight in his eyes that made her heart clench.
“I agree, Mira." he murmured, his voice hoarse and rough around the edges. "I'm sorry..."
In that single admission, Mira realized she had been waiting for something that would never come. She had braced herself for the truth, told herself she was ready, that she needed to hear it. But the reality of his words, the finality of them, slipped beneath her skin, sharp and unyielding. It was not a clean break, not a swift release, but a slow and aching of everything she had held together. The sharp edges of his confession pressed against wounds she had spent months trying to ignore, pushing deeper into the soft, bruised parts of her heart.
But, underneath the hurt, there was something else. Relief. For both of them. It crept in quiet and unbidden, like breath after being held too long. She saw it in the softening of his features, in the way he no longer looked at her like she was his duty.
There was peace in the honesty. In the release. But even as that freedom settled in her bones, Mira mourned. Not just the bond, but the version of them she had clung to. That love had once been waiting in the space between them. She had built her future out of that hope, sketched dreams around a love that had never quite arrived. Her breath shuddered, and she forced herself to nod, to acknowledge the truth, even as it cracked her open.
“I know,” she whispered, barely more than a breath. “I think… we’ve both known for a while.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t move to wipe it away. She let it fall. Let it be a mark of everything they had been, and everything they couldn’t be anymore.
Mira drew in a slow breath, the cool air brushing her lungs like a reminder that there was still more to say. She couldn't lie to him again.
