Page 32 of Twisted Promise

TWENTY-ONE

The change happened inside her, not Alessio.

Being with him had been nothing but perfect, and the escape she lived in morphed into small shards of reality. Too tangible, too real.

He would rub her ring finger absentmindedly, as often as it took her to understand its implication. She imagined it: gold, silver, diamond, her birthday stone, heirloom, a custom piece—all beautiful and weighed the same as the noose around her neck.

He had gotten more protective, cynical, andparanoid.

For a while, everyone was an enemy. The most he gave people was a side glance—a common thing he did when sharp words were flat on his tongue—and degraded patience. But it never came because she’d held his hand and said his name so softly it’d fade with the wind if he didn’t listen closely.

The turning point was a Tuesday. Alessio had left overseas to attend a meeting with his family’s close acquaintances, and it forced her to remember he was from a different world.

Even as the scary revelation resurfaced, she hadn’t experienced any tormenting emotions.

Neither had the news of her parents in the plane wreck.

She didn’t tell him, or anyone, in fact. She just got up, went to class, aced the pop quiz, and wished the professor a nice day.

Anya left her phone to ring until a voicemail was finished recording. She listened to it twice. The details lingered until the sympathetic voice stopped, and the second time, lightning struck her memories to pieces.

Whatever happened to the rushed funeral preparation, she hardly recalled a single moment as she had not been coherent enough to care. When was the last time she talked to Alessio? Who was at the funeral?

The wake, she was told, was the first time she saw that many strangers from her parents’ side. Second cousins, great aunts and uncles—just so many people.

They paid their respects and stayed briefly, but she was drifting through the day.

When she went to her parents’ house, she felt alive, like a breath of crisp air in her burning lungs, that she was finally free of the toxic fumes from their hostile relationship.

She sat in her dusty yet organized childhood bedroom and realized how much she craved solitude.

Then Alessio showed up thirty minutes later, standing outside the room, carrying all her favorite convenience store snacks and nothing on his face.

Handsome but unreadable.

He didn’t say anything, no scolding or empty sympathy. He found out what had happened somehow, but Anya felt too weak and dizzy to search for answers when his scent covered her.

Silent comfort, she supposed idly, as he draped an arm around her shoulder and put her head on his thigh.

He even bought her that green drink, which he called radioactive waste.

* * *

TWENTY-TWO

She was healing, slowly but surely.

Life moved on, seasons went, and new memories came. They were going stronger, four years, and graduation was around the corner.

She began to sleep like the dead. Sometimes throughout the day and night, maybe the next day if Alessio didn’t wake her.

They still woke up with a clockwork routine: his arms around her, her face above his heart, and the luminance of morning cast through the curtains.

He’d wake up and make breakfast for them while she slept for fifteen more minutes. Then, classes, lunch, home, dinner, and winding down for the night. Weekend dates, spontaneous gifts, and surprise affection.

He gave her normalcy, something he ruined with his bare hands.

He confessed to her under the sky, shattering her walls of denial, and she wished he never said it so devotedly in her ear.

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