Chapter 25: Twenty Five

Astra POV

I couldn’t look at him, not after what he said, not after the way his voice trembled when he tried to make me believe he meant it. Every part of me wanted to turn away, to hide behind that same wall I always built when I got too close, but somehow I couldn’t. It was like the sound of his breath was holding me in place.

He called my name again, softer this time, almost afraid of it. “Astra…”

The way he said it, like it meant something he couldn’t explain, made my chest tighten. I hated that. I hated that he could still reach me like that, that even when I tried to stop feeling, he knew where to find me.

I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after everything.”

He didn’t move. I could feel him watching me, the silence between us filled with everything I didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t anger anymore, it was something quieter, heavier. Something that waited for me to admit what I didn’t want to admit.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said finally. “Not then. Not now.”

I let out a shaky laugh, too small to sound real. “You were always good at pretending not to lie.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t fight back. Maybe he knew there was no point anymore. Maybe he finally understood that I wasn’t trying to win; I was trying to survive.

“Do you really think I wanted this?” he asked. “You think any of this was what I planned?”

I shook my head, but the truth was, I didn’t know what to think anymore. I was tired of thinking. Tired of doubting everything, even the way he looked at me, like I was both the reason and the mistake.

“Stop talking,” I said, my voice breaking halfway through. “Just stop.”

But he didn’t. He came closer, slow and careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Maybe he was.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Because if I stop, you’ll walk away again.”

I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t. I wanted to tell him I was done running. But the words wouldn’t come, and my throat burned from holding everything in.

When his hand reached out, I froze. It wasn’t the touch that scared me, it was what it meant. Every time he touched me, something inside me cracked open, something I couldn’t control.

His fingers brushed mine, just barely, and my heart stuttered.

“Don’t,” I said, even though I didn’t pull away.

“Then tell me to go,” he said quietly. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”

I couldn’t. The silence that followed was my answer, and he heard it.

He stepped closer until there was no space left between us. His voice was lower now, steady but trembling under the weight of something that felt too real. “I know you don’t trust me. You have every reason not to. But I’m still here. I’m not leaving until you tell me to.”

I hated him for that, for staying, for refusing to make it easier by walking away. I hated that it made something inside me want to break.

I looked up, and he was already looking down, eyes dark, searching, desperate. For once, there was no fight left in either of us. Just the quiet truth that neither knew what came next.

“You make everything harder,” I said.

He smiled faintly, like he knew. “You do the same to me.”

That almost made me laugh. Almost.

I wanted to hate him properly, the way I used to. But instead, I found myself remembering the way his hand used to fit at the back of my neck, the way he’d say my name when he thought I was asleep. It wasn’t fair, remembering things that didn’t belong to me anymore.

“Why do you keep trying?” I asked. “After everything I’ve done, everything you know?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because I can’t not.”

I looked away. The air between us felt too heavy to breathe in, and when I finally spoke, my voice came out small. “You’ll regret that.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But not as much as I’d regret letting you go again.”

Something inside me broke then, quietly, softly, the way a wound gives up pretending it’s healed. My hand lifted before I could stop it, fingers brushing his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath. He caught my hand, not to stop me, but to hold it there, like he needed the reminder that I was real.

I didn’t pull away this time. I just let the silence stretch, the kind that says everything words can’t.

He leaned down, not close enough to touch, just enough that his breath brushed against my cheek. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”

I wanted to. I wanted to say I didn’t. But my voice refused to lie.

So I said nothing.

That was all he needed.

When his forehead touched mine, I felt the weight of everything we hadn’t said press between us. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was something quieter, more dangerous, understanding.

I closed my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I let myself feel it.

The pain, the fear, the pull that never really went away.

His voice was a whisper against my skin. “I’m still here, Astra.”

And for once, I didn’t tell him not to be.

Time blurred after that. I didn’t know how long we stood there, breathing the same uneven rhythm, hearts trying to find a way to speak without words. When I finally pulled back, it wasn’t because I wanted to, it was because I had to.

He didn’t ask me to stay. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said everything.

I turned away, and before I could stop myself, I said, “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not leaving either.”

Something in his expression shifted, relief, disbelief, maybe both. He nodded once, quiet, careful, like he was afraid to move too fast and ruin it.

I hated that it felt like a beginning. I hated that I wanted it to be.

He reached out again, fingers brushing mine, just enough to remind me that he was real.

“Then we start from here,” he said softly.

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t pull away either.

Maybe that was enough.

I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest. It wasn’t new, but it felt different now, less like a wound, more like something trying to heal. His words echoed in my mind, every one of them pressing against the parts of me that still didn’t know how to trust.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or if I’d still feel the same when the sun came up. But for now, in the stillness of the night, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

And when I finally closed my eyes, I didn’t feel alone.