Page 8 of Impure Love

I shake my head. “I’m not ready.”

Sophia looks like she wants to argue but bites her tongue. Instead, she stands and grabs her bag. “Alright, well I’ve got to head to work. But we’re not done talking about this.”

I nod, relief washing over me as she leaves. She'll ask again, but for now, at least I'll have some more time to figure out what I'm going to do.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m alone again. The quiet is deafening, every creak of the building making me jump.

I wander over to the window, peeking through the curtains. The street below is busy, people going about their lives without a clue about the nightmares lurking in the shadows. I wonder if he's out there somewhere, watching, waiting. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

The stale air of the apartment is suffocating. I need to get out, even if it’s just to the mailbox. Taking a deep breath, I open the door, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. My heart races, each beat a drum in my ears. I force my legs to move, one step at a time, as if wading through quicksand.

Reaching the lobby, I glance around. No one in sight. I push through the glass doors and into the harsh daylight, the noise ofthe city crashing over me like a wave. My eyes dart everywhere, searching for shadows, for threats.

“Get a grip, Aliyah,” I mutter to myself, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Just get the mail and go back inside.”

The mailbox is only a few feet away, but it feels like miles. I unlock it, my hands trembling, and pull out a stack of letters. As I turn to head back, I catch sight of him.

Tall, dark, and staring straight at me. I can't make out his face, but his hair is dark, just like the man from the other night. The way he's staring sends a shiver rippling through me, and disturbingly enough, it’s not just fear. He’s across the street, leaning against a lamppost, as if he owns the world. His gaze is steady, unnerving. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Even from this far away, his features are noticeably good looking.

There's something familiar about him and the way he stares unflinchingly. My heart races and my stomach turns making me feel sick. Every fear I've had the past week comes slamming back into me. He found me, and now those intense eyes are watching me.

I stare back, caught in his hold. I car across the street leans on the horn and I tear my eyes away from where the man stands.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Common sense kicks in and the fear rises.

I grab the rest of the mail, my hands shaking as I fumble with the lock on the mailbox. I don’t dare look back across the street. The key finally turns, and I slam the box shut, practically running back inside. The door slams behind me, the sound echoing through the lobby. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat a reminder of the nightmare my life has become.

I bolt up the stairs to our apartment, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Once inside, I lock the door, pressing my back against it as if I can hold back the world outside. The mail slips from my fingers, scattering across the floor.

An hour passes, each minute dragging like an eternity. My mind races, the memory of his eyes burning into my soul. I work up the nerve to peek out the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see. He’s still there. The same fucking guy. Tears well up in my eyes, my mind spiraling into a dark abyss.

I sink to the floor, my back against the wall. What the hell does he want? Why is he here? I try to piece it together, but the fear is too thick, too suffocating.

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. The man outside—he has to be the same guy from the penthouse party. The cold, calculating eyes, the tailored suit. But why the hell would he be here? My mind scrambles for an explanation, clinging to any shred of logic.

This is New York. People cross paths all the time. There’s no way it’s the same guy. It can’t be.

I sit on the floor, my back against the wall, the scattered mail a chaotic mess around me. My thoughts race in circles. Where could I go? I don’t have family. My savings are a joke, and I’ve got nothing beyond this apartment and Sophia. New York’s been my home, my battleground, but now it feels like a prison.

“Running isn’t an option,” I whisper to myself, hugging my knees to my chest. “Where would I go? The moon?” I half laugh, half cry at my current reality.

The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh, but it’s hollow, more of a dry chuckle. Sophia would kill me if she heard me thinking like this. But the reality is stark: I can’t afford to leave. Hell, I can barely afford to stay.

My stomach churns, not from hunger, but from the gnawing anxiety. I’ve got to get a grip. Hiding out here isn’t sustainable. Rent’s due in two weeks, and the bills aren’t going to pay themselves.

I force myself to stand, swaying a bit from the sudden movement. My fingers tremble as I gather the mail, stuffing itinto a pile on the kitchen counter. I can’t keep hiding. I need to get a job, get out of this apartment. Maybe some normalcy will help me think straight.

Sophia’s voice echoes in my mind, her constant refrain: “We can’t afford to fall behind, Aliyah. We’ve got responsibilities.”

She’s right. I can’t keep dragging her down with my mess. I glance at the clock. It’s just past noon. I grab my phone and scroll through job listings, my eyes blurring over the endless requirements. Nothing jumps out, but I can’t afford to be picky.

I need to get out. I walk back to the window, the floor creaking beneath my feet. The curtain is heavy in my hand as I pull it aside just enough to peek through.

My eyes scan the street below, heart pounding. People bustle about, cars honk, life goes on. I almost don’t want to look, afraid I’ll see him still standing there, like a handsome nightmare I can’t shake.

But he’s gone.

I let out a long, shaky breath. Relief floods my body, making my legs weak. I lean against the window frame, feeling the cool glass against my forehead.

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