The silence hit harder.
There was something about the way the light shifted, from golden to gray that always made my chest tighten.
The hours between noon and dusk were the worst.
They stretched endlessly, quiet but suffocating, like the world was holding its breath and waiting for me to crumble.
I sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the room. My phone rested beside me, face down, screen black.
I hadn't touched it all day.
Not even once.
Maybe that's what scared me most, how detached I'd become from the life that used to define me.
There was a time when my days were filled with noise: cameras clicking, stylists talking, directors shouting cues.
My reflection was always ready, always rehearsed.
Every breath had a purpose.
Every smile was designed.
Now, there was just… this.
Stillness.
And me, trapped inside a body that didn't always feel like mine.
I stood and crossed to the window, staring out at the street below.
It was almost too normal, kids on bicycles, a woman hanging laundry, the faint bark of a dog echoing somewhere down the road.
A soft breeze filtered in, and I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.
For a moment, it felt grounding, until the thoughts returned.
Drake.
His name hit like a pulse in my chest.
Unwanted.
Uninvited.
Persistent.
The image of his smile, charming, rehearsed, familiar, flickered in my mind.
I used to think that smile meant safety.
That his eyes, those warm, honey-colored lies, saw me.
But in the end, he saw only the reflection he wanted: the perfect image to match his ambition.
Love bombed.
Used.
Left.
My throat tightened.
I tried to shake the memory off, but it clung to me, sticky and relentless.
The way he'd held my face and said, "You make me better."
When all he really meant was, "You make me visible."
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm my heartbeat.
It was racing for no reason.
My palms were cold, my breathing uneven.
The walls around me felt smaller, closer.
I tried to stand, but my knees felt weak.
My vision blurred slightly. T
he air thickened.
This was the part I hated, when my body remembered the pain even before my mind did.
The anxiety, the panic that came without warning, the endless loop of what-ifs.
What if I never find peace again?
What if I lose this quiet life?
What if Ken sees what I really am and leaves, too?
I reached for my phone, my hand trembling slightly.
The screen lit up, and I stared at it, unsure of who to call.
There were missed messages, from my manager, from my mother, from a few names I couldn't bear to read.
And then there was his contact, Ken.
Simple.
Steady.
Before I could overthink, I pressed his name.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then his voice filled the line, warm, calm, grounding. "Ysabelle?"
I froze.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
My throat ached.
The words tangled inside me until they finally fell out, fragile but raw.
"I… miss you."
There was silence on the other end.
Not cold, just still. And then, his tone shifted, low and steady. "Where are you?"
"At home," I whispered. "I'm fine, I just—"
"I'll be there soon."
The call ended before I could stop him.
I sank back onto the couch, phone still in hand, staring blankly at the wall.
I wasn't sure why I said it. I didn't mean to, at least, not out loud.
But the truth had slipped past my defenses before I could rebuild them.
I missed him.
Not in a romantic, cinematic way.
But in a quiet, necessary way, the kind that comes when you realize someone's presence feels like breathing again.
It wasn't long before I heard footsteps outside.
A knock. Firm but gentle.
I stood, hesitating for a second, before opening the door.
Ken was there, slightly out of breath, still wearing his scrubs, a faint line of worry etched between his brows.
His eyes scanned my face, reading everything I didn't say.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey," I echoed, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't ask why.
He didn't lecture.
He just stepped inside, his presence filling the space with warmth I hadn't realized I needed.
The world outside could wait.
Right now, this was all that mattered.
"Sit," he said softly, and I obeyed without thinking.
His presence was magnetic, steadying, like a tether to reality I hadn't realized I'd needed.
I watched him approach, noticing the subtle tension in his shoulders.
He didn't rush to touch me, didn't crowd me. Just stood nearby, quiet and attentive.
"You're shaking," he said finally, voice low, almost a whisper.
I shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm fine," I muttered, though my own words felt hollow.
He knelt beside me, gentle hands brushing against my forearm. "No. You're not. You're here, and I'm here. Let me help."
I swallowed, unsure if I was ready to let someone in like this, to be seen when the raw, fractured parts of me still felt exposed.
But the truth lingered beneath my carefully constructed armor.
I exhaled shakily, leaning into him just slightly, testing the warmth.
And when he wrapped an arm around me, letting me rest against his chest, my walls began to falter.
"Why didn't you call me sooner?" he asked, voice soft, almost hurt that I'd been suffering alone.
"I… I didn't want to bother you," I admitted quietly.
"You're not a bother," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "Ever. Not now. Not ever."
I felt the faintest tremor run through me.
My body, so used to holding itself together, relaxed just enough to let him in.
Minutes passed.
Quietly.
Peacefully.
I rested against him, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
The anxiety, the panic, the thoughts of Drake, of my career, of everything that had clawed at me today, they didn't vanish completely, but they dulled, softened by the warmth at my side.
I lifted my head slightly to look at him. "I…" My voice caught, faltering. "I miss you."
He smiled faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. "I know," he said simply. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
I let myself relax further, letting the tension dissolve.
My fingers traced the curve of his arm, memorizing the feel of him against me.
His hand moved to cover mine, holding it gently but firmly.
Time stretched softly around us.
The city hummed quietly outside, the fading light spilling a warm glow across the room. We didn't speak much. Words were unnecessary.
The soft brush of fingers, the warmth of bodies pressed together, the quiet rhythm of shared breathing, it said everything.
I felt the old, jagged pieces of myself shift, rearranging in ways I didn't fully understand.
The part that had been broken by heartbreak, by manipulation, by a life built on appearances, it softened, melted into the presence of someone who simply cared, who simply existed beside me without judgment or expectation.
I let out a quiet sigh, nestling closer.
His arm tightened just slightly around me, grounding me, keeping me steady.
I didn't have to hide.
I didn't have to fight.
I just… existed.
And he was there.
We stayed like that long into the evening, tangled together on the couch, quiet and warm.
Just the soft, simple presence of each other, hearts syncing in the silence.
And in that moment, as the city darkened outside and the soft glow of the apartment wrapped around us, I realized something terrifying and beautiful:
I was beginning to let myself feel again.
Not everything.
Not yet.
But enough to know that perhaps, finally, I didn't have to face the world alone.
And for now, that was enough.