Page 25 of Dear Owen

As I stared at the screen, the little typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. He’d wanted to say more but decided against it. The thought made my chest ache, though I couldn’t say why.

The confirmation felt like permission to move forward. I opened the browser and searched for therapists nearby, my hands shaking as I scrolled through the results. Most places had waiting lists or required weeks to get an appointment. It felt hopeless until I saw one with an opening tomorrow.

The receptionist was kind, her voice soothing as I stumbled over my words. “Tomorrow at 2 p.m.?” she confirmed.

“Yes,” I replied, the word coming out faint.

After hanging up, I set the phone down and stared at it, my mind struggling to process what I’d just done. Tomorrow. It was too soon, too fast. But wasn’t that what I needed?

The thought of talking to someone, of laying everything bare, terrified me. But the alternative was worse.

I stood and wandered back into the living room, my gaze landing on the massive windows that overlooked an expansive garden. The sun shone brightly, bathing the room in warmth, but it felt out of place. I wasn’t ready for so much light.

I curled up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. The house was too quiet, too big. Every shadow felt like it was watching me, and every creak of the floorboards reminded me of Owen’s footsteps on the basement stairs.

The thought of him was like a knife, cutting through the fragile calm I’d tried to build. His voice, his touch, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. I hated him. I loved him. I didn’t know how to separate the two.

But I knew one thing: I didn’t want to die. Not anymore.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. My life was a tangled mess of trauma and fear, and somewhere in the middle of it all was Owen.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt a flicker of something like hope. It was faint and fragile, like a candle in the wind, but it was there.

And for now, that was enough.

Twenty-Three

The worldaround me was unraveling, a slow, excruciating collapse that mirrored the chaos inside my head. My professors’ voices had become white noise, their lectures reduced to meaningless droning that I couldn’t bring myself to care about. The once-pristine notebooks I carried were now crammed with incoherent scribbles. Assignments piled up, and deadlines blurred into a single, suffocating haze.

Failing.I was failing at everything.

I’d been benched from hockey, my coach’s words still ringing in my ears. “Get your head on straight, Sinclair. You’re no good to the team like this.” I’d laughed at him—laughed—like it didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t. Hockey felt meaningless without her. Everything did.

My teammates had stopped trying to talk to me. Even Liam.. especially Liam. I’d overheard the whispers, the judgmental stares from guys who’d once slapped my back after every goal. “He’s lost it,” they’d muttered. And maybe they were right. Maybe I had.

Every waking moment was consumed by Kira—by the need to find her, to have her back. I’d torn through her belongings, retraced her steps, and scoured every corner of her life that I could get my hands on. But no matter how hard I looked, she remained out of reach. An invisible thread connected us, pulling taut every time I thought of her, but it led nowhere.

I sank into the worn couch in my dorm, the silence around me deafening. Her scent had faded from the sweater I’d stolen, and I hated myself for noticing. My fingers brushed over the fabric, gripping it tightly as if it could anchor me. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

My thoughts drifted tothat night, the memory sharp and unrelenting. She’d been the perfect storm—wanting me even as she didn’t fully trust me, her vulnerability and her love creating cracks in my defenses. Kira had been an unstoppable force, pulling me in no matter how much I fought against it. I didn’t want to care about her. I didn’t want tolikeher. So I convinced myself that if I used her, I could destroy the hold she had over me.

Warning: Graphic Non-consent

The party had been loud, a cacophony of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. I’d been watching her all night, my gaze locked on the way she moved, the way she avoided the crowd. She’d been so out of place, so vulnerable, and it had drawn me to her like a magnet.

She hadn’t smiled at anyone. Her eyes were guarded, but there was a flicker of hope every time they scanned the room. When our eyes met across the crowd, she’d looked away quickly, a blush creeping across her cheeks. I’d caught her sneaking glances at me throughout the night, her attraction impossible to hide.

When she’d tried to slip away unnoticed, I’d followed, my footsteps silent as I trailed her through the dimly lit halls. She hadn’t seen me, not until I called her name softly, my voice barely audible over the muffled bass of the music.

She’d paused, turning to face me, her expression a mix of uncertainty and something softer. “Owen?”

I’d stepped closer, keeping my movements deliberate and unthreatening. “Come with me.”

She hadn’t hesitated, though her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides. “Where?”

“Somewhere quiet.” My voice had been gentle, coaxing, as I held out a hand. She’d stared at it for a moment before placing hers in mine. It was trembling, but she didn’t pull away.

The room I led her to was already prepared. The ropes, the blindfold, the gag—I’d set it all up earlier, planned every detail. It was sick. I knew that. But I couldn’t stop myself.