Page 37 of Not For Keeps
But he doesn’t care. It’s a game to him. Win Analyse back. He has no idea who I even am. He just wants the version of me that stood in the doorway crying when he left.
What he doesn’t know is that woman? The one who begged? The one whose heart tore in two with each receding step of his… She doesn’t live here anymore. She’s dead and gone. Stronger and better than ever.
I lock my phone and set it down face-down on the counter, letting the silence reclaim the space. In the other room, the clock ticks softly. Upstairs, Maya sleeps without worry.
And me? I’m done begging.
Chapter Twelve
MATEO
Iawake gasping for air, sweat dripping down the back of my neck. Nightmares.
I haven’t had them in a while. I’ve been carefully evading them, hiding away from the pain. Avoiding triggers. Keeping my head down. Pretending that maybe, just fucking maybe, I had my shit figured out.
But I know better. Grief doesn’t work like that. Grief doesn’t just go away for good. It creeps in when you least expect it. It’s tricky that way. One minute you’re fine, sleeping in a bed you made yourself, in a life you’ve rebuilt piece by piece. And then within a blink of an eye, you’re right back in the middle of it.
Grief.
It claws its way up your throat. Burns like smoke. Sticks to your ribs. Makes you forget how to breathe, even though you’ve done it since the day you were born.
Grief.
It doesn’t ask permission to visit. It doesn’t knock at your door. Doesn’t send a carrier bird to notify you of its arrival. Itjust barges in unannounced, drags you under, holds you hostage, and dares you to act like it’s not winning. As if it isn’t killing you. As if you’re not bleeding out in ways no one else can see.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, heart still pounding. My fingers press into my temples, like I can squeeze the images out of my head. But I can’t. I never will be able to. They’re burned in too deep. Etched into every corner of who I am. They’ve become part of my very being. They are my mirror image.
The worst parts of me don’t hide in the shadows anymore. They stare back at me in bathroom mirrors. In the silence between calls. In the faces of the people who were never supposed to become my family. And the worst part is that they will never know. Because I hide it.
I’m a master of hidden secrets. I lock it all away so deep, buried under the false pretense of normalcy and happiness. Hidden away by jokes and laughter.
I pretend the weight of the past, the weight of what happened, doesn’t still sit on my chest every goddamn day. But it does. And the longer I pretend, the more I try to hide it, the more it tightens. Like a rope around my neck. I can’t breathe. Not really.
Every move I make, every word I speak, feels like it’s happening through a filter. No one really sees me. Not the real me, anyway. It’s as if I’m underwater, and everyone else is on land. They’re all waving, laughing, living, but not me. I’m just here. Drowning with a smile plastered across my face. I can’t breathe. But they can’t tell.
Because I’ve gotten really fucking good at pretending.
I’m bone-tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of drowning in silence. Tired of carrying ghosts I never invited but can’t seem to let go of.
Still, I get up. Because that’s what I do.
I go through the motions. Get ready like I’m not unraveling at the seams. I put on my uniform—layer by layer, piece by piece—until I’m back in character.
Until I’m the guy everyone knows. The one who shows up. The one who always seems okay. And by the time I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out onto the road, I almost believe it. I almost believe I’m that guy.
Almost.
The station’s already buzzing when I pull in.
The bay doors are open, and the cold morning air creeps through the garage, brushing against the concrete floor and making the smell of smoke and engine oil just a little sharper than usual.
Seb’s leaning against the engine with a protein bar in his hand. “You’re late,” he says around a mouthful.
“You’re dramatic,” I toss back.
He shrugs, biting off another chunk. “Both can be true.”
Andres is squatting beside a pile of gear, tightening the straps on his bunker pants. “He’s grumpy, because Cap made him redo his paperwork after he logged a ladder drill as ‘spiritual growth.’”
