Page 38 of Twisted Promise

She didn’t know where Alessio was or what he did during the three hours of sleep she got.

The sun was setting when she opened the cabin door, which was in an awful placement, in her opinion, since she couldn’t see the beautiful view.

She passed the key to the employee at the booth and made it to where his confession, faint but filled with conviction, took place.

He sat there, his hair gently swaying with the wind, holding a cup of steaming drink with pumpkin drawings on the coffee sleeve.

Like a burning divinity, he stood with a bleeding halo draped over his broad shoulders, his eyes beautifully determined.

He was waiting, as he had always been doing—like she was worth it.

Worth the trouble to stay and wonder which carpet she’d pull from underneath him again. Or worth the heartbreak when she inevitably pushed him away, fearing she’d lose him to a pit of debris and fire.

Was it worth it to lose him when she loved him the most?

No, never.

Anya wasn’t worth it.

She left him with the pieces she abandoned for maybes and what-ifs. She was plagued by fear, so much of it that his arms couldn’t protect her during sleepless nights. It felt surreal, the way she looked for comfort where her dread stemmed from.

But he genuinely cared and still did.

Her heart didn’t hurt, and it wouldn’t for quite some time.

“Ales,” she called, and he looked so vulnerable.

It had been years since she had called him that, his name, something she had the privilege of saying.

“We should talk,” she said as she took a determined step forward.

She was weak when running away and even weaker when running back to him. This time, though, she was kind of ready for the double-edged feelings. Trying… that counted for something, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to in the future.

They sat beside each other, facing the gorgeous sunset, immersed in the serenity. The drink warmed her hands. He got it for her, timing it perfectly when she woke up. He said she never slept more than three hours when she needed an escape.

He always knew.

She felt stupid for even trying to hide it from him.

Anya took a sip of the twenty percent sugar and eighty percent gingerbread milk. A new item, and she liked it.

Even with minutes of preparation, nervousness bubbled in her stomach, futilely fighting the thought of failing. Failed to explain and was unable to ease his guilt because, of course, he thought he had done something wrong.

She powered through the fog of uncertainty crafted hand-in-hand with fear.

Anya admitted she believed in soulmates when she was five. She saw it through her parents, how they cherished each other to the moon and back, how much joy was in their laughter when they danced in the kitchen before dinner, and how passionately they recited their wedding vows while holding her hands in theirs on their anniversaries.

They were a family until they weren’t ten years later. At fifteen, she was friends with eggshells. The house was a battlefield, with no ceasefire in sight.

Like the finest pendulum of a clock, it happened year after year—the same fights and misunderstandings. At some point, they fought just for the cycle.

When did their love turn into hate?

Whether they meant it or not, the inevitable blame shifted to her. It wasn’t spoken by either of them, but the implication was more than enough to crush the little fantasy of family, of home, on the last page of her diary.

It went into the trash afterward.

At seventeen, she took a leap of faith on a university tour miles away from home. It wasn’t her first choice, but she didn’t regret it. She met Alessio under less favorable circumstances, but he wasn’t her knight in shining armor.

---