Chapter 66
Chapter 66
Chapter 66: “After the Noise”
POV: Elizabeth
\---
I never thought silence could be so overwhelming.
Not after everything that happened.
Not after the post went live and the world seemed to erupt, flooding our lives with fiery headlines and trending hashtags.
Everyone had something to say, oh boy, did they ever. Some called me courageous; others accused me of seeking attention. A few shared their own experiences, while many didn’t even bother to read my letter. They just reacted to the chaos around them, ignoring my actual words.
Yet, amid all that turmoil online, something within me found a moment of peace.
I was sprawled out on the couch, one leg bent, wrapped in Jackson’s throw blanket, reaching up to my chest. My phone vibrated incessantly, but I didn’t even look at it. I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, tracing out imaginary shapes in the plaster.
For once, I stopped worrying about how people perceived me.
I wasn’t preoccupied with what to share next or how to justify my feelings or what kind of post to craft.
I was simply enjoying the act of breathing.
Quiet footsteps had me glance toward the hallway.
Jackson was leaning against the wall, holding a mug. “You didn’t touch the toast.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” I replied softly.
He paused for a moment, then walked over and set the mug down on the table next to me. “There’s chamomile tea. Thought it might help.”
I nodded in thanks.
He settled on the floor, leaning against the couch close to my legs but not touching me—just being present.
We sat in silence for a while. The news continued to buzz in the background as the world bickered around us.
“Do you want me to take legal action against them?” he asked out of the blue.
I turned my head to look at him. “Who?”
“The news outlets. The ones tarnishing your name. We have a case.”
“I’m aware.”
He looked up at me, his expression hard to read. “So what’s your decision?”
I sighed. “Let them say what they want. I’ve already shared my truth. I don’t want to waste my energy fighting against their shadows.”
Jackson nodded slowly, contemplating my words before leaning his head back against the couch.
“I hate this,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“That I can’t fix this for you.”
His voice wavered just a bit, as if he was trying to keep his emotions in check. I really looked at him then, and for a moment, the headlines faded away.
“I don’t need you to fix it,” I whispered. “Just stay with me.”
He met my gaze, his eyes steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
My heart tightened, not out of fear, but because it felt dangerously close to hope.
\---
Later that evening, after a dinner that neither of us really touched, I found myself at the window, arms crossed tightly. Outside, the lights sparkled like static, while inside, everything felt still.
My phone chimed.
Jackson:
> You doing okay?
I managed a small smile and replied.
Me:
> Getting there.
Just two seconds later, another message came through.
Jackson:
> Need anything?
I stared at the screen for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keypad. Then, to my surprise, I typed.
Me:
> You. And can you please stop pacing in the hallway and come in here?
There was a brief pause before the door opened.
“Hey,” he said, offering a half-smile.
“Hey.” I stepped aside so he could enter. “You’ve been checking on me like every thirty minutes.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure if that was too much.”
“It kind of is.”
“Sorry—”
I stepped closer and placed my hand on his arm. “But it really helps.”
He looked at me, lost in thought again, and I didn’t retract my hand.
“I was thinking,” I said carefully, “about that statement you wanted to release.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Not exactly. I just... want to help. Not as your PR person. Just... with you.”
Jackson nodded. “Alright. Let’s keep it brief.”
“No baby talk, then?”
He gave a slight smile. “No baby talk. That’s our thing.”
I nodded in response. “Thanks.”
A little later, we found ourselves on bar stools in the kitchen, sitting side by side, typing on a shared laptop. It wasn’t anything extravagant. No embellishments. Just a simple statement about supporting each other.
And that was enough.
\---
The next morning, I woke up to a soft knock on my door.
I opened it, still in my robe and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Jackson stood there in a white T-shirt and gray joggers, holding a box of my favorite donuts.
“Are you trying to bribe me?” I said, a half-smile crossing my face.
“Maybe,” he replied, lifting the box. “Truce?”
I accepted it. “We weren’t really fighting.”
“I know.” He glanced past me into the apartment. “Can I come in?”
I paused for just a moment before stepping aside. “Sure.”
He entered slowly, as if he didn’t want to overwhelm me. I set the box on the kitchen counter and grabbed a plate.
“I was thinking…” I started, then hesitated.
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Would you want to come to the studio with me today?”
Jackson blinked in surprise. “You’re serious?”
I nodded. “You’ve never been there. I think… it’s time.”
He smiled, and for the first time in days, it felt genuine.
\---
The studio was filled with the scents of paint, turpentine, and old memories.
It was far from tidy, my brushes were scattered about, canvases leaning in the corner, some half-finished and others just blank, waiting for inspiration. He looked around as if he were exploring a museum that intrigued him yet was completely foreign.
“You can sit there,” I said, indicating the stool by the window.
He took a seat.
I didn’t say a word.
I didn’t explain anything.
I simply picked up a brush and began to paint.
The silence felt peaceful rather than awkward.
He observed every stroke like it held significance.
After a while, I glanced at him. “You bored yet?”
“No. This is... nice,” he replied.
I shrugged. “This is how I think. How I process.”
He nodded in understanding. “I get it now.”
I didn’t paint him directly. But somehow, the colors swirling, the shapes taking form, it felt like him.
A beginning, not fully realized, but quietly emerging.
After some time, he stood up, stretching, and walked over to the painting, studying it intently.
“Is that... me?”
I chuckled. “Not quite.”
He grinned. “It feels like me.”
I met his gaze. “It’s how you feel to me.”
He looked like he had something to say but instead just rested his hand lightly on my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured.
And maybe the outside world continued to spin, still loud and chaotic.
But in that little studio, with paint on my hands and his gentle touch on my shoulder, everything else faded away.
For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was starting to find myself again.
With him by my side.