I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Does hereallyknow me that little?
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for coffee and a heart-to-heart?” I snap.
My best friend rollshiseyes right back at me.
“Could be an option. Or we crack open a bottle of whiskey and you tell me what the hell’s going on,” he offers.
“No need, Kiran,” I cut him off coldly.
“Fine. Then let’s sit here in total silence,” he mutters, giving up.
“Thank you,” I grumble, focusing again on the wildflowers taking shape under my pencil.
I’m nearly done when he starts drumming his fingers on the desk. That damn noise drives me insane. He knows it too. Sometimes, he’s worse than my own mother.
“Who’s the drawing for?” he finally asks, unable to keep his mouth shut.
“Andrew,” I admit without looking up.
Originally, I planned to use the flowers to cover the scar on his back.
“You think he’s coming back?” he jumps on the chance to ask.
“No,” I reply flatly.
“Then why draw it?”
I sigh and glance up. That’s the question. The one that says it all. The idea had come to me and refused to let go. At first, I’d hoped Andrew would come back. That we could talk, fix things. Now, for his own good, I want him far away from this studio. Far away fromme.
“What else do I have to do?” I throw back as a deflection.
“We could talk,” he insists again.
I toss my pencil on the desk.
“What do you want to talk about, Kiran?”
A sly grin spreads across his face, and those slightly pointed canines flash.
“Let’s talk about Andrew.”
“What do you want to know? If I’m hurting? If I hate everything and everyone right now?”
“Sounds like a decent place to start,” he says with a nod.
I press my forehead into my hands, right on the edge. I’m seconds from begging him to leave. I don’t want to talk—because that would mean facing everything swirling inside me. And it’s easier to just shove it all down.
“Sorry, Kiran. I don’t even know how I feel,” I say, standing up.
I leave him in the studio and head upstairs to the apartment. I make sure to lock the door behind me—just in case he tries to follow. If he keeps pushing me, Iwillsnap his neck. Even if he means well. Even if he’s worried. I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t even deal withmyself.
When I reach the bedroom, I finally find a sliver of peace. For the first time in hours, I’m alone. I collapse onto the bed. His scent still lingers faintly in the air—like a memory hanging on by a thread. I wish it would stay forever, that it could trick me into thinking he’s still here. But I know it’s only a matter of time before it fades. Just like I know that Andrew and I… we were never meant to last. We only got a brief moment. A pause in the chaos. A glimpse of something like happiness.
Now, the only thing that matters ishisfuture. And for that to exist, I need to take that bastard down.
Hopefully, it won’t take long for him to resurface. The FBI’s on his ass—he’ll have to flee the country fast. Maybe he’ll slip up. That’s my shot.
I stare at the white ceiling, counting my breaths, but it doesn’t help. My chest is heavy. My eyes burn. Everything feels so final.
