CHAPTER 64
ARIA
After dinner, I slipped back into my room, closing the door with a soft click.
The quiet wrapped around me, but it wasn’t comforting. It pressed in, heavy and restless, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t relax.
I set my bag down, paced once, twice, then finally knelt beside my suitcase.
My fingers hovered over the zipper, hesitant, as if touching it might release something I wasn’t ready to face.
Stop avoiding it, I told myself. It’s just a box. Just a stupid little box.
But my hand betrayed my thoughts. I pulled at the zipper, dug past neatly folded clothes, past the things I told myself I didn’t need to remember, until my fingers brushed against something familiar—and forbidden.
The box.
Small.
Exquisite.
Too perfect, too out of place in the plain, ordinary life I tried so hard to lead.
I lifted it from the bottom of my suitcase and placed it on the bed.
My thumb traced the smooth lid, and my chest tightened. Why do you even keep this? I whispered to myself. You don’t need it.
You don’t need him.
And yet, I opened it.
Inside lay two black feathers, delicate and perfect, resting against the lining as though they’d grown there.
My stomach twisted, a mixture of longing and sorrow. I reached out, brushing the tip of one with a fingertip. So soft. So impossibly fragile.
God… I breathed, closing my eyes.
The faint scent hit me, a ghost of memory, and my throat went dry.
"Why does this still hurt?" I muttered under my breath. It’s been years.
You’re supposed to be over it.
But the ache wouldn’t let go.
Not now.
Not ever, it seemed.
My fingers trembled as I lifted the feather fully, holding it against my palm, trying to anchor myself.
He’s gone.
He’s not here.
He’s—he’s just a memory, I whispered, my voice shaky. So why does my chest feel like it’s breaking all over again?
The memory of him came unbidden—the night he gave me these feathers, the way his gaze had cut through me, sharp and alive, fearless and impossible to resist.
And today… Today, seeing Professor Lian command the room, the way every eye followed him, I felt that same pull, that same dizzying ache.
It’s not him. It can’t be him. He’s not him. He’s not real.
Calm down, Aria.
I pressed the feather to my lips, inhaling a faint trace of him, wishing for something I couldn’t name.
Sadness pooled in my chest, heavy and aching, and I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Stop it. Stop thinking about this. You’re making it worse.
You’re letting it take over.
I curled my fingers around the feather, careful not to crush it, holding it like it might vanish if I let go.
The pull between then and now twisted inside me—memories and present colliding, confusing, impossible to untangle.
"Why can’t I just let it go?" I whispered into the quiet room.
Why does this still have such a hold on me?
I snapped the lid shut, my hands shaking, my breath catching.
Enough, Aria.
Enough.
I kept telling myself it was just a stranger. Just a man with a similar face.
Nothing more.
Yet my body betrayed me every time he came near, every time his presence brushed against mine, even if only in memory.
My heart thudded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
My hands were clammy. My chest is tight, like I’d run a hundred steps.
Stop this. Stop letting yourself feel this way. It’s done. It’s over.
And still, I couldn’t stop.
I finally set the box aside, my hands lingering a moment longer than they should have, before dragging myself toward the bed.
The sheets felt cool under my fingertips, a brief comfort, but my mind refused to quiet.
I sank down, pulling the blanket around me, hoping that the simple act of lying still might dull the storm inside.
But it didn’t.
I could still feel it—the memory of him. Professor Lean.
The way he had leaned just slightly past me to retrieve that module. The brush of his shoulder against mine. So subtle, so casual, but it had left a mark on my skin, a spark I wasn’t ready to admit even to myself.
Stop.
Just stop thinking about it, I scolded under my breath, pressing my palms into my eyes. It was nothing.
He’s just a man.
Just a stranger in a conference hall.
But the warmth of that moment lingered, creeping into the hollow spaces I tried to ignore.
The way his presence had made the air feel different, heavier somehow, yet impossible to pull away from.
How ridiculous, how utterly infuriating—how could someone I barely knew cause this much chaos inside me?
I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to ground myself, reminding myself of the logic that usually steadied me. You’re imagining things. Stop.
But imagining wasn’t enough.
My mind replayed the moment over and over—the small, almost imperceptible graze of his shoulder, the way he had bent slightly to retrieve the module, the tilt of his head, the calm, precise way he moved.
My chest tightened just remembering it.
God, stop. I whispered, my voice trembling despite my resolve.
Stop letting yourself be flustered.
You’re being ridiculous.
He doesn’t even know you exist outside that room.
Yet I couldn’t stop.
My hands unconsciously traced the blanket, pressing my fingers into the fabric, as if I could anchor myself to something real. I swallowed hard, trying to push the warmth from my chest back down, trying to make my heartbeat slow.
Just… breathe, Aria. Calm down. You’re fine. It’s over. Stop.
But every breath reminded me of the closeness, of the way proximity had stolen my composure, how even the tiniest contact had made my thoughts scatter.
I pressed my forehead to my knees, trying to force the memory away, scolding myself silently, hoping the repetition would finally work.
It’s nothing.
Just stop thinking about it.
Stop.
I closed my eyes, willing the image to fade, but it refused.
The memory had settled somewhere deep, stitched into the nerves that seemed to respond to his presence even when he wasn’t there.
And the more I tried to push it away, the sharper the ache in my chest became—a longing I didn’t have words for, a frustration that felt both infuriating and impossible to resist.
I finally lay back, turning onto my side, blanket pulled tight around me, and whispered again, softer this time, almost pleading: Stop. Just stop. You can’t feel this way. You’re making a fool of yourself.
Yet even as I said it, I knew the memory would linger, a quiet, persistent ache that wouldn’t let me rest so easily.
THIRD POV
At nightfall, the room was quiet except for the faint sound of the wind against the balcony doors.
Moonlight spilt across the floor, illuminating the bed where Aria slept, unaware of anything around her.
Then the balcony door shifted slightly, and a shadow moved inside. The figure was huge, silent, wings folded close to its body, brushing just above the floor as it stepped forward.
Golden eyes scanned the room, locking on Aria.
They were bright, sharp, and impossible to ignore, watching her chest rise and fall, the small movements of her fingers, the strands of hair that had fallen across her face.
It didn’t make a sound.
It didn’t need to. Its presence filled the room.
The air felt heavier, charged, as though everything around it had grown smaller, focused only on her.
The figure lingered near the bed, wings shifting slightly, catching the moonlight in dark, glossy arcs.
It was still, patient, almost careful, yet the weight of its gaze made it impossible not to notice.
For a moment, it was as if the room held its breath with her, waiting, watching, the figure and the girl alone in the quiet of the night.