Listen to Light Me Up by Ingrid Michealson

The next morning, we visited Morris. The room was brighter, the air lighter, as if his steady recovery was bringing a new breath to the space. His color had returned, his eyes clearer, and the exhaustion that had once etched deep lines in his face was beginning to soften. I stood by the bedside for a moment, watching him, a tight knot of emotion in my chest. I hadn't realized how much I had missed him until now—his dry humor, his steady presence, and his unwavering support. But for now, this was enough: seeing him here, taking slow but deliberate steps back toward life.

After leaving the hospital, I made a detour to the police station. I had to know what had happened with Mrs. Porter—if anyone had come forward to claim her body. The officer's answer hit me like a cold slap: no one. It shouldn't have been a surprise. Mrs. Porter had lived alone.  She'd always treated me like family, always spoken to me like I mattered. 

I left the station in a daze, my heart heavy. The decision was made. I told Tristan I wanted to give her a funeral.

Tristan's eyes softened as he listened. I could see the quiet understanding behind his gaze. His lips pressed together, and for a moment, the weight of his thoughts seemed to hang in the air. "Of course," he said quietly. "We'll take care of it." There was no hesitation. No second thoughts. Just that deep, unshakable sense of duty and kindness that I couldn't help but admire in him.

The days that followed were a blur of arrangements and decisions. I reached out to people who might have known Mrs. Porter—anyone who had crossed her path in life. I chose the flowers carefully, the music thoughtfully, every detail imbued with the desire to honor her memory. Saturday arrived with a quiet weight. The morning was overcast, as though the sky itself was grieving.

The funeral was small, intimate. I stood at the podium, the weight of her life pressing on my shoulders, and spoke from the heart. My words trembled, raw and vulnerable, as I recounted the kindness she had shown me. When I finished, the silence hung in the air, thick and full. And then the tears came, silent at first, then unstoppable, my chest heaving with the grief I hadn't realized was still there. I wasn't sure if they were for Mrs. Porter, or for everything I had lost. 

The days after the funeral slipped by in a haze. I still stayed at the Sanchesters' estate, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling of being an outsider, despite how warmly they treated me. The apartment I once called home was still a mess—Grey behind bars didn't erase the dread I felt about going back. I couldn't bring myself to face it, to relive the chaos of those moments.

Upstairs, I had my own room. The twins' room was right next door, and Tristan's was farther down the hall. I couldn't help but notice how he had already arranged their cribs with such care, as though it was second nature to him now, this role as a father. Mrs. Sanchester, with her usual unspoken authority, had given me a stack of design magazines and an interior designer's contact, offering to make their room a space I could love as much as they would. "It's important to me," she'd said, her voice soft but firm. "That they have a place here."

It was overwhelming, all of it—the kindness, the expectations, the sudden reality of what was happening between Tristan and me. I couldn't figure out if they believed we were back together, if they imagined I would stay here with the twins, or if they were simply trying to make the best of an impossible situation. What did Tristan want? What did I want? The answers were elusive, tangled up in a thousand questions I couldn't untangle.

I was stuck in this limbo, a deep hole that seemed to have no way out. The noise of my own thoughts was deafening. I knew I had to put the twins first. It wasn't even a choice—it was a necessity. But with every decision, every step forward, I felt like I was being pulled in two directions. 

I ran my palm down the front of my waitress uniform. The short dress was wrinkled, and a small white stain marred the hem, barely noticeable. I was lucky Mr. Klein had kept my job at the diner for me after I'd been gone for weeks. 

I rushed down the grand staircase, my sneakers slapping against the polished floors, the sound echoing through the empty halls. It was a palace—every inch of the Sanchester estate was a testament to money and taste, the ceilings high enough to swallow you whole, and the interior so meticulously designed, it felt like stepping into a museum. The house was beautiful, sure, but it felt so empty sometimes. The silence, the space, the weight of all the unsaid things.

And then I heard it. Laughter. Deep, unrestrained laughter that sent a warm shiver through me, even as I tried to ignore it. It was Tristan. I knew that sound, that deep chuckle that rumbled from his chest, like he was sharing a secret joke. I couldn't stop the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth, despite the chaos inside me. 

I walked toward the source of the noise, and there they were, all three of them, in the living room. The twins—Kayden and Kayla—were running circles around Tristan, their little legs moving in a blur of energy and giggles. Tristan's face contorted into an exaggerated expression, pretending to be a dragon, roaring in playful menace as they squealed and dodged. I stood there, just out of sight, watching through the open doorway, unable to move, unable to tear my eyes away.

He grabbed Kayden, swinging him up into the air and spinning him around as if he'd been doing this his whole life. "I'm gonna eat you up!" he teased, pretending to gnaw at Kayden's hand, the boy giggling uncontrollably in his arms. And for that moment, in that room filled with laughter, the world felt right again.

The sight of him, so effortlessly natural, made my chest ache. It was like watching a man born to be a father, to be the center of these children's world. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no learning curve. He was simply there, fully in the moment, completely immersed in the joy of being with them. It was as if he had a Ph.D. in parenting, as if every movement, every word, was second nature.

I had kept him away from them.

Watching him with them, seeing how perfectly he fit into their lives, made me feel like a monster for ever trying to keep him away. Kayla was back, and I still couldn't quite believe it. I still couldn't believe we had Kayla back. After everything—everything we had been through—she was here. And it should have been the happiest moment of my life, but all I could feel was the sting of inadequacy. I wasn't sure if I deserved to be her mother. I wasn't sure I was even good enough for them anymore.Tristan deserved to be in their lives. Not just in the periphery, not just when it was convenient. He deserved more than the scraps I'd been willing to offer.

"Chloe?" The sound of my name sliced through the thick fog of my thoughts. I flinched, immediately pulling myself out of the spiral. I turned to face him. Tristan. His eyes, usually so steady, were filled with concern.

"Mommy?" Kayden's small voice pulled me further into the moment. He was standing next to me, tugging at the hem of my dress with his little hand, looking up at me with those big, trusting eyes. How could I possibly deserve this?

"Yes, baby," I said, forcing a smile, and I scooped him up into my arms. His giggles filled my ears, a sweet sound that grounded me, even if only for a moment.

"Are you okay?" Tristan's voice was soft, almost tentative.

I couldn't meet his gaze. I nodded, pretending I was fine, even though I was anything but. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I have an evening shift at the diner," I said, avoiding his eyes, focusing on Kayden in my arms. "I'll be back late. Can you watch over the twins?"

"You don't have to ask," Tristan said with a soft sigh. His voice carried the weight of something unspoken, but it wasn't an accusation. The tension between us was thick, and I didn't know how to cut through it.

I managed to meet his gaze for just a second, long enough to feel the heaviness of it, before I quickly looked away.

"Kayla is more comfortable sleeping with her..." I hesitated, not wanting to seem like I was giving him instructions. He didn't need them. He knew how to care for them better than I did.

"I know what to do," Tristan cut in gently, his tone sharp but understanding.

"Okay," I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Call me if anything happens."

He nodded, but the silence stretched between us, thick and unyielding. It was as if we were both tiptoeing around something we didn't know how to address. Why was I suddenly so nervous around him? It was maddening.

"You can use one of the cars," he said after a pause, his voice almost reluctant. "Or Eduardo can drop you off if you don't want to drive."

"No," I replied quickly, too quickly. "I'll take the bus."

"The bus stop is ten minutes walk from here," he pointed out, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I know," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I need the exercise anyway."

He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came. His lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes lingering on me with an expression I couldn't decipher. I hated it. The awkwardness, the uncertainty. It had been like this ever since the trip. A slow, simmering distance that neither of us knew how to cross.

"I'll see you later," I whispered, trying to push the weight of the moment aside, trying to act like things were normal. "Mommy's gotta go to work."

I stepped closer to Tristan, my heart doing a strange, painful lurch in my chest. My body brushed against Tristan's as I straightened, and for just a fleeting moment, I felt the warmth of his presence. The familiar strength of him, the steady rhythm of his breath. My skin prickled from the contact, and I couldn't help but feel the tension between us—so thick and unspoken, like an invisible rope pulling me toward him and pushing me away at the same time.

I pressed my lips to Kayla's cheek, soft, a gentle kiss that felt like a silent apology.

"I love you," I whispered into the silence, and though she didn't respond, though she just stared back at me with a vacant expression, I didn't let it break me. It hurt every time. But I deserved it. I knew I did.

I turned to Kayden, trying to push the pain aside, forcing a smile onto my face. "Bye, love you," I said softly, before peppering his little face with kisses. 

I set Kayden down, my hands lingering on his tiny shoulders before I turned back to Tristan. He was already staring at me, his eyes intense, unreadable. There was a question there, something unspoken. Something he was holding back, but I didn't know how to answer it.

"I'm leaving," I said quietly, my voice tight.

I waved at the twins. Kayden waved back enthusiastically, his little hand flapping in the air. Kayla, however, stayed nestled against Tristan, her little face buried in the crook of his arm as if she sought comfort there. 

I half-expected him to say something, to offer a simple "stay safe" or "have a good day," something to bridge the chasm between us. But he didn't. He stayed silent, watching me walk away, his eyes lingering on my back. And with each step, the silence between us grew louder, more deafening.

I stepped outside into the cool morning air, but the heaviness in my chest didn't lift. My thoughts spiraled as I made the ten-minute walk to the bus stop. The world around me felt blurry, like I was walking through a fog. My emotions screamed for him, for the family we could be, but my brain... my brain told me to be cautious. To think with logic, to make decisions that wouldn't be clouded by my feelings.

But how could I do that? The last time I let my emotions take over, I made choices I regretted. I'd acted out of fear and anger, pushing Tristan away, keeping the twins from him, even giving Kayla up. I'd hurt myself and him in the process. And now I had to live with the consequences. They might grow up hating me for what I did, for the choices I made, and who was I to blame them?

By the time I reached the bus stop, the questions hadn't gotten any clearer. But I pushed them aside for the moment. I couldn't let them consume me right now. I needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen without judgment. Someone who could help me make sense of everything.

I pulled out my phone and texted Vina, convincing her to come by the diner after her shift. It was my turn to lock up tonight, so I could take my time. I needed to unload. I needed to tell her everything. I couldn't keep hiding from the truth anymore, couldn't keep burying these feelings that were choking me from the inside. 

Vina walked into the diner just as I was finishing up cleaning the last table. Her shoulders were slumped, the weight of exhaustion etched across her face as she made her way toward me in her blue scrubs. She looked like someone who'd been running on empty for days, maybe weeks. And in that moment, all I wanted was to pull her into a hug, wrap her up, and nurse her back to some semblance of peace.

"Please tell me you left something for me to eat," she sighed, practically collapsing into one of the booth seats.

I eyed her with a mix of affection and unfiltered honesty. "You look like shit," I said, scrunching up my face.

Vina's tired eyes flickered with amusement, though she didn't have the energy for much more than a faint grin. "And you look like a sexy waitress. No wonder those high school boys keep hitting on you," she shot back, her voice dry, but teasing.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Give me five minutes. I'll be right back."

I turned on my heel and headed for the back to take out the trash.

When I returned, she was hunched over her phone, scrolling mindlessly, as if trying to escape from her own fatigue. I set the plate of fries, chicken nuggets, and a burger in front of her with a flourish. "Here you go, your highness," I said, the sarcasm rolling off my tongue.

She didn't even look up at me, just muttered a half-hearted "Thanks," before shoveling fries into her mouth. I went back to grab a can of soda from the fridge, placing it next to her with a soft clink.

"Eat up. I've got to lock up in twenty minutes," I told her, sitting across from her.

Vina shot me a look, her face scrunching up in mock disapproval. "You're such a bad friend," she said between bites. "Why would you feed me carbs at midnight?"

"I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms. "I could go cut some grass for you if you want."

She kicked me lightly under the table, her expression softening as she smiled. "I miss you," she said, the words bittersweet as she reached for more fries. "How have you been? And the twins? Has Kayla called you 'Mom' yet?"

I leaned back in my seat, letting out a breath. "I'm still alive, I guess. Feel like an immortal some days, other days I'm just hanging on." I let out a quiet laugh at myself. "The twins are good. Keeping Tristan on his toes. Kayla lets me carry her around now, though. That's progress, right?"

Vina nodded, her tired eyes studying me as she chewed thoughtfully. "So, do you still wanna move to another state?"

I froze. The question hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I knew she was angry with me for keeping my escape plan a secret, for hiding that part of myself like it was some kind of betrayal. But the truth was, as soon as Tristan came back, everything had shifted. My plans, my dreams of running away, had fallen apart the moment he stepped back into my life.

I sighed, leaning forward with my elbows on the table. "I don't know where to go from here, with Tristan, with the twins. The path ahead is all blurry." My voice cracked slightly, though I quickly masked it with a shrug. "It's like I'm stuck in some fog, and I don't know how to find my way out."

Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I saw the quiet concern that she always tried to hide behind her sarcastic remarks. "Are you still in love with him?"

I went silent, my gaze dropping to the worn surface of the table. There was a small, faint mark on it, a ring of moisture that had long since dried. I stared at it as if it could offer me some kind of answer. The truth was, I couldn't even figure it out myself. I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore. Confusion swirled inside me, pulling me in different directions. One moment, I could still feel the echo of the love I once had for Tristan. The next, I could hear the screams of my betrayed heart, still raw and tender from everything that had happened.

"Chloe?" Vina's voice was softer now, pulling me out of my head. Her hand reached across the table and wrapped around mine. But I recoiled, pulling my hand back quickly.

"Eww, your hand is greasy," I said, my words a little sharper than I intended. She rolled her eyes and kept eating, her smile never quite leaving her face.

"Come on," she pressed, not letting me off the hook. "You still have feelings for him, don't you?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my thoughts. The words didn't come easily, but I knew they were the truth.

"It's complicated," I muttered. It was the only answer that made any sense. And even then, it felt like a lie.

"How was he in Cuba?" she asked, her voice steady but with a quiet edge that told me she was already bracing for the answer. "How did he react to almost losing Kayla?"

I exhaled slowly, my mind wandering back to those tense, suffocating days in Cuba. The terror of not knowing if we'd get Kayla back, the desperation that had crawled under my skin. "He was collected, quiet. But when he found out there was a chance we might not get her back... that's when I saw the fear in him. He was terrified, Vee. He kept saying it was his punishment for everything he'd done to me. I think that journey—" I paused, the weight of the memory pressing down on me, "—it brought some closure. We were able to talk about the three years apart... everything we never said."

Vina's gaze hardened, the muscles in her jaw tightening. She didn't need to say anything for me to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. "And then what?" she prodded, her voice lower now, as though she were afraid of the answer she was about to hear.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to keep my face neutral, to prevent the blush from creeping up my neck. "We kissed," I said, the words stumbling out before I could stop them. "In the heat of the moment... it wasn't anything deep. It was just... calming. A moment of relief. We shared a shower, a bed... some cuddling, that's all." I cleared my throat, hoping my explanation would be enough. 

She didn't say anything for a long moment, her eyes locked on mine, simmering with something I couldn't quite read. Then, finally, she spoke, the words sharp, cutting through the thick tension between us.

"Wait, what?" Her voice was incredulous, a low laugh escaping her lips. "You kissed him? Seriously?" I could see the disapproval flicker across her face. I knew how much she hated Tristan—how much she resented the man who'd broken me, who'd shattered everything in me.

Vina leaned back in her seat, her eyes softening with concern but still tinged with frustration. "I don't want to see you hurt again. So, what are you most afraid of? What's stopping you from getting back together with him?"

I stared down at the table, the knot in my chest tightening. The answer felt suffocating. "Fiona and Nadia," I murmured. "I'm afraid he'll never get over what happened with them."

There was a long, heavy silence before Vina spoke again, her voice quieter now, more measured. "But do you want to get back together with him because of the kids, or because of your feelings?" Her question was a knife, cutting straight through all the noise in my mind. The answer should've been simple, but it felt like the hardest thing I'd ever been asked.

I blinked, my chest tightening. I didn't know how to answer. Do I want him back because of the kids, or because of me? The thought rattled me, shook me to my core. I buried my face in my palms, groaning in frustration. "I don't know, Vee. I'm going crazy here."

"I'm not going to tell you to listen to your heart or just follow your gut. That's not what you need right now," she said, the words deliberate, measured. "What you need to do is think about what you really want—and how your decision will affect your future. See the bigger picture. I know you want the best for the twins, but I want you to be happy too. Don't feel like you have to be with him because of them. It's okay if you're still hurting, if you need time to heal. The process is different for everyone. If you're still in love with him and you want to be with him, that's one thing. But don't force yourself into something because he's the father of your kids."

Her words sliced through the chaos in my mind, bringing a temporary stillness to the storm inside me. But it didn't last long. The guilt, the confusion, the love, the anger—it all came crashing back, overwhelming me all over again.

I shook my head, a laugh that wasn't really a laugh escaping my lips. "It's like one moment I find a reason to smile, to breathe again, and then the next... I'm back to feeling miserable." My voice wavered, and I could feel my hands trembling, despite the calm she was trying to offer. "Maybe it was right for him to come back. Maybe it's what had to happen. But now... now I can't stop picturing what it would be like in a few years. If I had gone through with my plan—if I'd gotten my degree and moved to New York with Kayden... imagine how he'd feel, growing up and finding out I separated him from his sister." The words caught in my throat, and I sniffled, my face burning as I tried to keep my composure. "He'd never forgive me. Never want to look at me again."

I had surrendered to the idea of losing Kayla. I had come to terms with the fact that she was gone—not just physically, but from my life, from my heart. If we hadn't gone to Cuba—if Tristan hadn't been so relentless, so damn hopeful—Kayla would have stayed lost to me forever. He was the one who wouldn't let go, who clung to the belief that there was still a chance, a thread to pull her back. I hadn't wanted to hope anymore. I had let that part of me die, along with her absence.

A heavy silence settled between us, and I could feel the weight of my confession hanging in the air. "I was so mad at Tristan for coming back. For ruining everything I thought I'd built for myself. I wanted to blame him, to make him the villain, for taking away the happiness I thought I'd earned. But then—" I stopped, shaking my head. The realization hit me like a slap. "I always blame him for everything. For all my bad decisions, for all the things I could've done differently."

I met Vina's eyes, my heart in my throat, desperate for something—anything—that would make this easier. But there was no easy way through this, no simple fix.

Her expression softened, her features smoothing with understanding. "None of this is your fault, Chloe. Don't you dare put it all on you." Her voice was gentle, but there was an urgency beneath it. "Talk to him. Honestly. Lay it out. See where you both stand."

The weight of her words settled deep into my chest, but there was a small, gnawing anxiety that kept me from fully accepting them. "I will," I murmured, though I wasn't sure if I believed it myself. I grabbed her drink, taking a long sip, hoping it would wash away the dryness in my throat, the ache that wouldn't go away.

We talked for a few more minutes, her teasing and jokes a welcome distraction from the chaos in my mind. But soon, the night caught up with us. Vina dropped me off at the Sanchesters' estate, the headlights of her car fading into the distance as I stood there, alone in the quiet driveway. The stillness of the house felt suffocating, the grand estate looming around me, a reminder of everything I didn't know how to navigate.

I entered the house softly, my footsteps light, as if trying not to disturb the fragile peace of the night. I moved quietly through the entryway, my breath slow and deliberate as I reached the stairs but the moment my foot hit the stair, a voice sliced through the air—sharp, unexpected. "Chloe?"

I froze, my heart jumping into my throat. The soft, familiar sound of my name echoed in the space, and I spun toward the living room, squinting into the dim light. In the far corner, a figure sat on the couch, barely visible in the low glow.

The lights flickered on, and I blinked against the sudden brightness, trying to make sense of the shadow.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Mrs. Sanchester's voice was gentle, but the tension in it was undeniable. She shifted slightly on the couch, adjusting the exotic robe around her shoulders, the silk gliding over her like a soft wave. "Can we talk?"

I hesitated for a beat, still caught off guard. My body ached, and my mind was far from ready for another conversation. But I forced a smile, one that felt more like a mask than an expression of anything real. "Sure," I said, my voice betraying the exhaustion that pulled at my limbs.

I took a seat across from her, watching as she brought a steaming cup of herbal tea to her lips, the scent of chamomile drifting in the air. She looked timeless, ageless.

"How was work?" she asked, her voice soft, almost casual.

"Good," I replied, the word coming out flat, like I was trying to fill a void with something simple, something easy. But the weight of the moment was too much.

She took a slow sip of her tea, eyes never leaving me. "How are you feeling about everything?" she asked, her voice dipping with a tenderness that made my stomach tighten.

I swallowed, unsure of how to even begin explaining the turmoil inside me. "It's overwhelming," I said after a moment, my fingers twisting the hem of my uniform nervously. "But I'm taking it all in. One day at a time."

She nodded, her gaze thoughtful, as if weighing my words carefully. "I'm really happy for you—deciding to keep the twins," she said, her voice gentle but laden with something deeper. "I know it wasn't an easy decision. And seeing Tristan so... overjoyed. You gave him that."

Her words hit harder than I expected, the unspoken gratitude there, but also something else—regret, perhaps, or maybe just the weight of the past she felt she couldn't escape.

Mrs. Sanchester set her cup down, her hands trembling slightly as she looked at me, her voice dropping lower. "I'm sorry. I... I'm sorry for how everything played out. I know we hurt you. I hope, one day, you can forgive us."

Her eyes were full of sincerity, but also of something raw—something that felt like regret, like a heavy burden she couldn't quite shake off.

"It was all me. I convinced him to keep you around, Chloe. I saw how you were the only thing that could pull him out of his darkness. You gave him something to hold onto—something that made him feel human again, something that wasn't all pain. He was himself again, Chloe. You brought him back to life, in a way. And I can't thank you enough for that. I couldn't stand to see him let you go, not after that. He never wanted to. But I made him. I told him to, so... so please, whatever resentment you have toward him, direct it at me."

Her words hung heavy in the air, each one a knife twisting deeper into the space between us. She was crumbling under the pressure of the truth, and it was impossible to ignore the rawness in her eyes—the kind of grief that had no real end. I could see the guilt in her, the years of it, curling up inside her, suffocating her.

I didn't know how to respond. The apology, however heartfelt, made the past feel like it was still hanging in the air, a ghost that refused to leave.

"It's fine," I said, the words coming out more hollow than I intended. "Right now, my goal is to make sure the twins have a better life. And for me to be the best version of myself for them." I paused, then added, "I don't want to dwell on the past."

I took a step toward her, and before I could think, I sat beside her on the couch, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened at first, as if unsure whether she deserved the comfort, but then she gave in, her shoulders shaking under the weight of her grief.

"It's okay," I whispered, my words a murmur against her hair as I held her tightly.

She cried quietly, the sound of her sobs like a quiet storm. I could feel her body trembling in my arms, and the weight of everything—of all the years, all the guilt, all the regrets—seemed to collapse into the space between us.

As she cried, my eyes were drawn to the large photo album beside her on the couch, resting carelessly on the edge like something forgotten. It beckoned me, a quiet curiosity tugging at me. I reached for it, and as I flipped it open, a photograph of a small child caught my gaze. The little boy grinned at the camera, his eyes a vibrant blue, his golden blonde hair wild in the sunlight. It was almost as if I was staring at Kayla.

I couldn't help myself. "Is that Tristan?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Mrs. Sanchester pulled away from me slightly, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her robe. She sniffled but gave me a soft, nostalgic smile as she reached for the album, bringing it closer. The edges of her lips curled upward, a tenderness in her expression that only came when she spoke of something she truly cherished. She nodded, her fingers gently brushing over the photograph as though it were something sacred.

"That's him," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "He was so full of life, even back then. Always laughing, always smiling. His father and I had so many plans... I wanted more children, a bigger family. But after I lost him..." Her voice broke, and she quickly wiped her eyes. She cleared her throat and continued, trying to steady herself.

 She wasn't over him—not in any way that could be fixed or healed—and I could see how the years hadn't lessened the longing, the love, the ache of missing him. 

I stayed with her for a while, allowing the silence to settle around us, letting her share whatever pieces of her heart she felt comfortable revealing. But soon, the quiet grew too heavy for me. I stood, gave her one last reassuring pat on the shoulder, and made my way upstairs.

The house felt even emptier now as I walked through the halls. I found my way to the twins' room, my heart a little lighter as I leaned down to kiss each of them softly on their foreheads, feeling the warmth of their tiny bodies as they slept.

When I stepped out of the room, I caught myself glancing at Tristan's door. I didn't know if he was awake. I didn't know if it was the right moment to talk—if there ever was a right moment. But my feet carried me toward it anyway, hesitating just outside the door. My pulse quickened, my breath caught in my throat.

And then, from inside, I heard the faint shuffle of movement. The click of a light switch. My body went rigid, a sharp, cold panic seizing me. I held my breath, the silence between us thick and unbearable, until the sound of his footsteps faded. Only then did I let myself exhale, the weight lifting slightly from my chest as I tiptoed away.

In the solitude of my room, I leaned against the wall with a sigh, my palm resting over the steady thrum of my heart. The tension still clung to me, a physical weight I couldn't shake. I stripped off my clothes, letting the fabric fall in a heap on the floor, and stepped into the shower. The water hit my skin like a cleansing rain, and for a moment, I let the sensation carry me away—let it drown out the constant whirl of questions spinning in my mind.

 The memory of his words from the hospital echoed in my mind: I never stopped loving you. The ache of those words was sharp and bittersweet, but I couldn't forget what had come before—the lies, the betrayal. Even if we somehow found our way back to each other, the trust we once shared was long gone. It had shattered, and there was no amount of time that could fix it. 

Things had felt different in Cuba—better, even. But since we'd come back to Beverly Hills, Tristan had been distant. And yet, every time we were in the same room, I felt the weight of his gaze on me. It was like fire, intense and unforgiving, searing through the space between us.

I exhaled sharply, the water running down my back like the endless thoughts that kept me awake, restless. When I finally stepped out, I dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, the soft fabric doing little to soothe the tension in my body. I was physically exhausted, every muscle aching from the weight of everything left unsaid, yet sleep remained elusive. The questions, the doubts—they churned in my mind like an unrelenting wave.

Unable to stay still, I grabbed the duvet and a pillow, and without thinking, walked to the twins' room. The room was dim, quiet, save for the soft rise and fall of their breathing. I lowered myself to the floor, settling in between their cribs, curling up into the soft space where I could hear their gentle sounds, their tiny murmurs of sleep. It was the only place where I could find even a small sense of peace, even if it was fleeting.