Page 24 of Dear Owen

“Of course,” I said, turning and walking briskly back to my car. I could feel her eyes on me the entire way, her suspicion trailing after me like a shadow.

I slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel, my chest heaving. She wasn’t here. She hadn’t even told her parents anything. Where the hell was she?

The drive back was a blur. My mind replayed every interaction, every moment I’d spent watching her. The way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear during class, oblivious to my gaze. The way her lips curved when she read something she enjoyed, her concentration so absolute she hadn’t noticed me staring. I’d memorized her schedule, her habits, the little things that made her Kira. But now, all that knowledge felt useless.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the desperation had turned to something darker. I kicked the door shut behind me and dropped onto my bed, surrounded by the remnants of my search. Her sweater was still clutched in my hand, the fabric soft against my skin. I held it to my face again, inhaling deeply, as if it could somehow ground me. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

I stared at the wall, my mind racing. Images of Kira flashed behind my eyes, fragmented and disjointed. Her smile, her laugh, the way she’d looked at me with a mix of fear and defiance. The way her body had trembled under my touch, her gasps mingled with mine. She was mine. She’d always been mine.

But now she was gone, and the emptiness she’d left behind was unbearable. I felt like I was unraveling, every thread of control I’d carefully woven coming apart at the seams. My chest ached, the weight of my failure crushing me.

I picked up her notebook from the floor, flipping through the pages aimlessly. The neat rows of text blurred, my vision clouded by tears I refused to let fall. “Kira,” I whispered, the sound of her name breaking something inside me. “Come back.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered. The room was silent, except for the sound of my ragged breathing. I leaned back against the wall, clutching the notebook to my chest like it was some sort of lifeline. The darkness pressed in around me, suffocating and absolute.

I couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not ever.

The thoughts swirled, chaotic and consuming, as I sat there, drowning in my own torment. The only thing I knew with certainty was that I wasn’t done. Not yet. Not ever.

Twenty-Two

I woke to silence.No handcuffs, no cold basement floor, no oppressive darkness. Just the soft hum of central air and the faint scent of lavender. The room around me was unfamiliar—clean, bright, and far too big. For a moment, I thought I might still be dreaming, the kind where safety feels fragile, like a glass bubble that could shatter with the wrong breath.

My body ached with a deep, lingering soreness from days spent fighting against myself. My wrists bore faint marks from the cuffs and my chest was still tender beneath the bandages Liam had applied. I ran my fingers along the edges of the gauze, the touch grounding me in reality.

The room was pristine and impersonal, like something from a luxury hotel. It was too perfect, too untouched, which made it all the more surreal. I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting, and looked around. The only evidence that this space belonged to someone was the neatly folded hoodie draped over a chair, probably left there by Liam.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet brushing against the plush carpet. The softness startled me—a far cry from the cold concrete of the basement. I stood on unsteady legs, my body moving without much input from my mind, and wandered toward the door.

The hallway was wide and bathed in light from tall windows. Everything about this house screamed wealth, from the gleaming floors to the oversized paintings lining the walls. I traced a hand along the railing as I descended a grand staircase, my bare feet making soft sounds against the polished wood.

The house was silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. I passed through the living room, where more opulent furniture sat in perfect arrangement. It felt like a set piece in a play, a space too perfect to be real.

On the counter in the kitchen sat a note, its handwriting neat and precise.

Kira, Take your time. You’re safe here. -Liam

Safe. The word felt foreign. I wasn’t sure I even believed it.

I lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the note. Liam hadn’t come back. The absence of his presence left an uneasy void, but part of me was relieved. I didn’t have to face him, and pretend to be okay.

My eyes drifted to the phone he’d left for me, sitting next to the credit card. It was sleek and new, its glossy surface catching the morning light. I hesitated before picking it up, its weight feeling heavier than it should.

I sat at the table, staring at the screen as I powered it on. The blank home screen stared back at me, a fresh start that felt daunting. Liam had programmed his number into it—his name was the only one in the contacts list.

I opened the messaging app, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was I even supposed to say? The thought of asking for something felt... wrong, like I was imposing.

After a long moment, I typed:

Can I use the card to pay for a therapist near here?

I stared at the words, my finger trembling over the send button. My mind raced with excuses not to press it. What if he thought I was weak? What if he said no? But I couldn’t keep spiraling. Not anymore.

I hit send and placed the phone face down on the table, anxiety tightening my chest.

The vibration of his reply startled me. I flipped the phone over and read the single word:

Yes.

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