Chapter 49: THIS FEELS LIKE GOODBYE

The scent of Anise’s favorite dish hit her before Ally even entered the room—warm jollof rice, smoky grilled chicken. Her stomach grumbled despite her weak state, and for the first time in days, she almost gave a real smile.

Ally stepped in carefully, balancing the food bag and a bouquet of yellow lilies. “Peace flowers,” she said softly, placing them by the window. “Your brother told me you liked these.”

Anise raised her eyes slowly, tired but alive. “You remembered.”

Ally offered a quiet smile. “I remember everything.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was thick with understanding. Ally had been around long enough to know when to speak and when to simply be present.

She unpacked the food slowly, the foil rustling like paper-thin secrets, then handed over a fork. “I thought you might be tired of hospital mush.”

Anise took it gratefully. “You have no idea.”

They sat together, the only sound being the hum of the monitors and the occasional clang of trays down the hall. Ally didn’t push—not yet. She waited until Anise had eaten a few bites, her expression softening with every forkful.

Then, gently, she set her hand on the edge of the bed.

“I saw Jake yesterday,” Ally said.

Anise paused mid-bite, her jaw freezing.

Ally took a breath. “He was wearing that jacket. The one I wanted to borrow from you. The one you swore was just vintage cool.”

Anise didn’t respond.

“You two have a thing?”

Still no answer.

Ally leaned back slightly. “You don’t have to say it. That silence just screamed yes.”

Anise lowered her fork, eyes flickering to the floor.

She let out a breath, barely audible. “It was never supposed to happen.”

“But it did?”

A soft nod. Ally smiled, not with judgment but a strange, quiet pride. “You deserve something for yourself. Even if it’s messy.”

Anise looked at her, raw. “But that’s the problem. He’s not just something—he was the detective. The one meant to protect me, guide me, and lead this case. Instead, I ended up protecting myself.”

Ally looked down at her own hands. “Yeah. I figured. You’ve always done that. Even when you shouldn’t have to.”

Anise blinked, her eyes stinging. “Maybe this thing with Jake... it was a way to feel safe. To feel seen. But love that makes you feel invisible when it matters most? That’s not love, is it?”

Ally didn’t answer that. Some questions were too sacred.

Instead, she leaned forward. “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

Anise waited.

“Your mother. The case. Everything you’re digging into.”

Anise’s jaw tightened.

“I know you, Anise. You’re relentless. Smart. Fearless. But this—this-this is dangerous. Real-world dangerous.”

“I can’t stop,” Anise said. “Not now.”

“Even if it kills you?”

“If I die knowing the truth, that’s better than living in the dark.”

Ally sat back, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “God, you're stubborn.”

“You love that about me.”

“I do,” Ally whispered. “But I also don’t want to lose you.”

The air grew heavy again. The food sat between them, half-eaten. The warmth from the zobo bottle is fading.

Ally stood slowly, brushing invisible crumbs from her jeans. “You’re being discharged today. I’ll go get Dexton.”

Anise looked up, startled. “Already?”

“The doctors said your vitals are stable enough. You’ll rest better at home.”

Ally turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “Whatever happens next... promise me you’ll at least think before you leap.”

Anise gave a weak smile. “I promise to think—but I might still leap.”

Ally laughed, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Anise smiled.

Then she was gone.

Anise’s thoughts after Ally’s visit dig deep into her emotional truth. The line “But love that makes you feel invisible when it matters most, that’s not love, is it?” keeps echoing because it cuts to the heart of what she’s wrestling with.

She realizes that what she had with Jake might not have been real love—it might have been a moment of vulnerability. After losing her mom, she was grieving, raw, and emotionally exposed. Jake offered comfort, familiarity, and the illusion of safety, and maybe she clung to that because she needed something.

But now, looking back, she sees that Jake didn’t show up when it counted the most. He kept her in the dark. He didn’t prioritize the one thing that mattered—the case that brought them together in the first place. That made her feel invisible and unimportant.

And that’s not love.

She starts to understand that just because something feels good in the moment—just because the sex was intense, or the connection was strong—doesn’t mean it’s healthy or right. That kind of affection can’t compete with the unresolved grief, the unanswered questions, or the justice her mother still doesn’t have.

Her clarity is simple: she cannot afford to be distracted by temporary comfort when permanent healing is still out of reach.

So she chooses to step back—not because she didn’t feel something for Jake—but because she now knows what she truly needs.

A few hours later,  the door opened again.

Jake stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click. The air changed.

She didn’t look at him right away.

He looked different—more haunted than she remembered. Like he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t been the same since she vanished. Guilt wore on his face like bruises.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, his hands stuffed in his pockets, like he was scared of his own words.

Jake took a step forward, but something in her stillness stopped him.

“Anise…” Her name in his mouth trembled, like it didn’t belong there anymore. “Talk to me. Please.”

She exhaled slowly. “You should’ve told me about the flash drive.”

He closed his eyes. “I didn’t know what was on it. I thought I’d lost it. And when I found out you’d taken it back—”

“You thought I stole it.”

“Didn’t you?” he asked gently.

She finally turned to face him. Her eyes were glassy, but dry. “You think that’s the point?”

“No,” Jake murmured. “I think the point is… You didn’t trust me enough to leave it in my hands. And I didn’t fight hard enough to show you that you could.”

She stood. Her bare feet touched the cold floor like truth meeting reality.

“I did trust you,” she said. “I gave you something that could ruin everything. And maybe part of me hoped you’d run with it. That you'd chase justice so hard, I’d finally feel safe again.”

Jake’s expression tightened, guilt spreading across his face like bruises. “I wanted to protect you. I thought—”

“You thought,” she cut in, “that love would be enough. That keeps me distracted, would keep me safe.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t deny it.

Anise crossed her arms. “I was kidnapped, Jake. I was dragged into the belly of hell. You know who they wanted to break? Me. Not you. Not Dexton. Me.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “Because you still look at me like I’m the same girl you made love to in my apartment. But I’m not. That girl had dreams. That girl had faith.”

Jake stepped closer. “You think I don’t see that? You think I don’t hate myself for not being there when you needed me most?”

Anise’s voice cracked. “Then why didn’t you show up when it mattered?”

“I’m here now!”

She laughed bitterly. “Are you? Because all I see is a man who doesn’t know whether he wants to save the case or save me.”

That hurt.

Jake flinched like she’d struck him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Her voice was sharp now. “Because it’s true? Or because you don’t want to admit it?”

Jake looked at her—Really looked at her.

Her eyes were tired. Her frame was smaller than he remembered. She was breathing, yes. But she was also breaking.

And maybe this was the part they never tell you about—the part after the rescue. When the girl is saved but her heart is still trapped behind bars.

He moved closer, slowly, like she was a wounded animal.

“Anise,” he said, softly now. “I love you.”

She didn’t respond. The silence between them was a verdict.

Jake’s throat tightened. “Even if you never speak to me again. Even if you walk out of here and disappear—I need you to know that. I love you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she turned away before they fell.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

Jake blinked. “Why?”

“Because this feels like a goodbye.”

His heart broke while she picked up the hospital sweater, pulled it over her head, and faced the door.

“I need space,” she said.

Jake nodded slowly. “Okay.”

She looked at him one last time, eyes full of things she couldn’t say.

Then he left.

And she lay there, in the center of that sterile room, tasting the bitter truth:

She had survived.

But they might not.