Page 45 of Unrequited
He sent me home?
I thought we were going to talk it out, that we’d finally get a chance to clear the air.
He warned me before. And I’ve felt that dominant energy of his before, heat rising off asphalt, quiet but scorching. But this? This is something else entirely. This is colder. Sharper. Like he’s aiming all of that tightly coiled power directly at me. And I don’t know what to make of it.
Is he angry with me? Is that why he sent me away?
He told me to go home. Told me to stay safe. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I walked straight into the fire without flinching.
I warned my brothers, something he might already know—or maybe not. Then I did the one thing I told myself I wouldn't do. I showed up, right in the goddamn line of fire. And even I know I could have been killed.
I know that. I’m not fucking stupid, but I had to see for myself. I had to know he was okay. And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to expect from him anymore.
And honestly? I’m a little scared. Not of him, exactly, but of how deep I’ve fallen. Of how much I want to trust him, even now.
Even after he sent me home. Forced the issue. Had his own fucking driver bring me.
The rejection cuts.
But deep down, I know he would have protected me. No matter what, hewouldhave. I need answers now, and I want them straight from his mouth.
I look at the last message he sent me, the day before he sent me home:Under no circumstances do you come to me. Is that clear?
I told him yes. Sent the message back like I was playing it cool.Yes, yes, I understand,I replied.Fine.
I get it. I know why he’s this way. I know men like him because I grew up with them. Men who bark and growl and throw up walls, but underneath? There’s something more fragile. Something that’s terrified of loss. Of weakness. Of watching someone they care about get hurt.
He gets angry. He blusters. But I swear to god, his real anger is because he doesn’t want to see me broken.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
So, the next Thursday, I go to the bar. I know we’re going to have it out—that talk he’s been itching to have with me about what I did. Fair enough.
But I want my turn too. I want to look him in the eye and ask him who the fuck he really is. Also fair.
Only this time? When I get to the bar?
He’s not waiting for me.
I was afraid that after he sent me home, this would happen. I feared it, day after day, when the texts I sent him were unanswered.
A strange, heavy silence settles in my gut.
But I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I wait until the bar starts to empty out. Until the glances from the staff stretch a little too long. Until even the music sounds like it's playing for someone else. And still, I sit there like a fucking idiot, holding onto hope.
My brothers are already suspicious. They know I lied. They just don’t know how deeply. And honestly? I can’t blame them.
So what now?
I wait until I’m practically the only one left… until the lights dim and last call echoes hollow through the room. And only then do I finally face it.
He’s not coming.
