He never gave up.
And in every still image, in every worn fingerprint pressed into these pages—I feel it. The weight of her absence. The devotion he refuses to let go of.
She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made you hesitate before speaking. Confident. Effortless. The kind of woman I’d never dare approach.
No wonder he loved her.
But it only drives the point deeper.
I’m not her.
And I never will be.
Not in presence. Not in impact. Not in the way he looks at me with pieces of someone else still shadowing his eyes.
And now, seeing this?
I finally understand just how much I’ll always fall short.
Why did I do this to myself?
Why did I drag up the ghost of a woman I can never outrun—never compete with?
Because now I know. If this fails… if he can’t save me, can’t choose me—I’ll just be another name on the list of women who disappeared. And it will still be her he searches for. Not me. Not Darcy.
Just Kyla.
Always Kyla.
God, what a perfectly executed self-sabotage. A masterclass in emotional masochism. I handed myself the hammer and shattered my own delusions, all in the name of answers. I thought knowing would give me power. Maybe evenclosure. But all it’s given me is confirmation—I’ll never be what she was.
I pack the file away with trembling hands, but it’s too late—the damage is already done. The air feels tighter, like the weight of her memory is pressing on my chest, and tears claw at the back of my throat, begging for release.
But I can’t let them fall. Not yet.
Not while I’m still standing inhisroom. Not whileherscent feels like it still lingers in the paper. Not while everything in here screams her name.
I don’t even know why this hurts so much. It’s not like he was ever mine. Not really.
Maybe it’s the finality of it. Maybe it’s the way reality tastes when all your hopeful little delusions cave in. Or maybe it’s the quiet confirmation of what I’ve suspected but never wanted to face. That he will never stop loving her.
And I—I was just a welcomed distraction. A detour. A momentary glitch in his grief.
Something inside me buckles.
I leave everything as it was—neat, untouched, as if I was never here. As if I hadn’t just clawed open every vulnerable part of myself in a room built from secrets.
Then I run.
Out of the room. Down the hall. Away from the ache clinging to my ribs.
I need a drink—something sharp. Something to burn through this sinking, swirling emptiness that’s latching onto me like a disease.
Because if I don’t drown this feeling fast, it might just pull me under.
31
Nell
