Page 92 of Whispers of Obsession

I find myself unable to think about that day, but the memories haunt me nonetheless. It’s not easy to reconcile with the fact that I’m a murderer, even though I don’t regret saving Slater.

Slater had dragged me back to campus after just one night at my mom’s house - I think he was eager to avoid having to explain our lie to her - but I’d not been able to sleep in my dorm room since that night.

After three days of living in a state of constant anxiety and looking and feeling like shit because of the lack of sleep, my friends intervened and reached out to Slater, and he insisted I stay with him after he found out it was impossible for me to sleep in my own room, the memories of that fateful night too vivid to bear alone.

His private apartment, tucked away from the prying eyes off campus, offers a sanctuary of sorts, a refuge from the chaos that surrounds us.

Yet, despite the intimacy of our shared space, Slater remains distant, his affectionate gestures tinged with a hint of restraint. It’s as if he’s holding back, keeping me at arm’s length while he grapples with his own demons.

I understand the need for space, for time to process the events that have shaken us both to our core. But as the weeks stretch on, the silence between us grows deafening, a silent barrier that threatens to divide us.

I yearn for the easy camaraderie we once shared, the playful banter and shared laughter that defined our friendship long before our budding relationship began. But as the days pass, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us, a fracture in our connection that threatens to tear us apart.

I cling to the hope that time will heal the wounds that bind us, that eventually, we’ll find our way back to each other. But for now, all I can do is hold on tight and weather the storm, prayingthat our love will be enough to see us through the darkness that lies ahead.

“I’ll see you at work later, okay?” Slater asks, drawing me from my slightly melancholy thoughts.

“Sure, I’ll see you there,” I reply, forcing a smile to mask the nerves that churn in my stomach. Tonight marks my first shift back at the bar since everything unfolded, and despite Slater’s insistence that I take some more personal time, I can’t shake the feeling of apprehension that gnaws at the edges of my mind.

Slater’s concern for my well-being is touching, in its own way. He’s been unwavering in his support, urging me to prioritize self-care and rest. But as the days stretch on, his constant presence feels stifling, suffocating me with its intensity.

I long to immerse myself in the familiar routine of school and work, to lose myself in the hustle and bustle of the bar. But Slater’s insistence on my well-being leaves little room for compromise, his protectiveness bordering on overbearing at times.

Still, I know his intentions are pure, his actions driven by a desire to shield me from further harm. And for that, I am grateful.

But as I prepare to face the challenges of the night ahead, I can’t help but wonder if his concern will ultimately smother the spark of independence that flickers within me. If, deep down, he’s not a little controlling like his father.

After Slater leaves, I take a moment to gather my thoughts before reaching out to a few friends to catch up. Their voices, filled with warmth and laughter, offer a welcome distraction from the weight of recent events, easing the tension that had settled in my shoulders.

As I chat with them, the familiar routine of getting ready for work begins to soothe my frayed nerves. I select a simple yet stylish outfit, slipping into it with practiced ease. With a finalglance in the mirror to ensure everything is in place, I grab my essentials and head for the door.

Despite knowing the bar is just a short walk away, Slater's insistence via text on calling a cab catches me off guard. I protest, assuring him that I'm perfectly capable of making the journey on foot, but he refuses to budge, his concern for my safety unwavering once again.

With a resigned sigh, I accept his gesture of kindness, knowing that arguing further will only prolong the inevitable. As the cab pulls up outside the bar, Slater meets me, pressing a handful of bills into my hand, insisting that he cover the fare.

“Thank you,” I murmur, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Slater smiles, his eyes softening with affection. “Just promise me you'll take care of yourself, okay? Tell me if it’s too much or too soon to come back.”

I nod, offering him a reassuring smile before walking into the bar. I can't help but feel a pang of gratitude for Slater’s kindness. He’s nothing like his father, and I feel guilty for feeling smothered by him before.

As the night wears on and my shift at the bar progresses, I find myself growing increasingly jumpy, my nerves on edge as shadows flicker in the dimly lit corners of the room. Each sudden movement sends a shiver down my spine, my senses heightened as if anticipating something lurking just beyond my line of sight.

I catch glimpses of fleeting figures out of the corner of my eye, wisps of darkness that seem to dance in the periphery of my vision before disappearing. My heart pounds with each sighting, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin as fear tightens its grip on my senses.

The sound of laughter echoes through the crowded bar. It's a familiar sound, one that sends shivers down my spine asmemories of Heather flood my mind, her laughter like a ghostly echo from the past.

In my heightened state of anxiety, my hands tremble as I reach for a glass, the fragile crystal slipping from my grasp and shattering against the hard surface of the bar. The sound reverberates through the room, drawing startled glances from patrons as shards of glass scatter across the floor like fallen stars.

I curse under my breath, my cheeks burning with embarrassment as I quickly move to clean up the mess, my hands shaking as I sweep the broken pieces into a dustpan. But even as I work to restore order, my mind is consumed by the echoes of laughter that linger in the air, a reminder of the ghosts that haunt me even in the most mundane of moments.

As the chaos of the bar begins to subside and my nerves continue to fray, Slater appears at my side like a reassuring anchor in the storm. His presence is a welcome respite from the unsettling events of the evening, and I find myself leaning into his steady embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of his touch.

“Cora, are you alright?” Slater's gaze meets mine, his eyes filled with concern as he takes in my trembling form. Without a word, he wraps an arm around my shoulders, offering silent support as he guides me toward the exit. “Let’s get some fresh air for a minute.”

The cool night air hits me like a wave as we walk outside, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the bar.

“I’m taking you home,” he declares firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. I feel wrung out and exhausted, I’m not about to fight him.

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