Page 63 of His To Unravel
One moment, I was navigating the normal routine of classes, projects, and responsibilities. The next, I found myself swept into Nathaniel’s world, one I am both drawn to and wary of.
As much as I want to stay there, basking in his attention and the way he makes me feel—desired, chosen, seen—something in me is holding back. I can’t shake the fear, the apprehension that one day, he might change his mind. What if the fever in his eyes one day cools, and I’m left hollow and aching, wondering how I ever thought I could be enough?
I take a deep breath, trying to temper my thoughts. I need to keep something for myself—a piece of me that Nathaniel can’t touch, can’t take. A safety line—however thin—that I can hold onto if everything falls apart.
The familiar wooden sign of The Nook appears up ahead, and I feel my shoulders relax a little. Light spills from the café’s windows, casting an inviting glow on the brick exterior. It’s the kind of sanctuary that reminds me of who I was before everything with Nathaniel began, a place where I can still find some semblance of normalcy.
With a small smile, I push open the door and step inside. The scent of fresh espresso and warm sugar greets me instantly, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace.
I make my way to the counter and order my usual: a latte with an indulgent sprinkle of cinnamon and a blueberry muffin. The barista rings me up and I wait off to the side, watching the rhythmic choreography behind the counter. Once I have my order, I head toward my favorite spot by the window.
As I take the first sip, I give myself a moment to enjoy the atmosphere of this space that has now become sacred, and a feelingof calm settles over me. It’s a brief, precious escape from the weight of my thoughts, the perfect start to an afternoon of catching up.
Opening my laptop, I begin sorting through emails and notifications, skimming through announcements and due dates.
I almost miss it—a simple, unassuming subject line that makes my heart stutter:Interview Invitation from Castor & Wyatt.
My pulse quickens, and I read it twice, feeling the words settle in with a weight that’s equal parts excitement and disbelief.
Castor & Wyatt.One of the most prestigious management consulting firms, a place where people like me rarely get a foot in the door.
I applied at the start of the semester, a long shot fueled by ambition and late-night hope, but now…Nowit’s real.
A graduate position. A chance to work abroad. I picture the possibilities—the freedom, the independence, the sheer thrill of doing something I’ve worked so hard for in a city like London, Singapore, or even Dubai. Far from here—far from every obligation and expectation.
This isn’t just a job; it’s an escape. A chance at a life where I’m not just someone’s daughter, someone’s sister—where I can finally beme, standing on my own. I close my eyes, letting the rush of anticipation wash over me, holding onto the feeling of something big just within reach.
And then, as if on cue, my phone lights up with a string of messages.My mother.The moment cracks like glass, reality seeping in through the excited haze.
I glance down at my phone, heart sinking as I read the messages from my mother—her words fill the screen, weaving a net of duties I can feel tightening around me like a noose.
Mom
Olivia, why haven’t you been replying? Are you having so much fun at your fancy university that you’ve forgotten about your family back home?
Sampson forgot to submit his history paper again. Can you email his teacher and smooth things over? You’re better with those things than I am.
Michael’s still skipping his after-school practice. I told you to have a word with him, you know he doesn’t listen to me.
Also, both boys need to register for summer classes. Make sure to handle the forms when you’re back, I’ve got too much on my plate right now.
The words blur as I scroll through the endless list. Each line is a thread, weaving me back into a role I’ve never asked for but can never seem to escape. It’s always the same—fix this, smooth that over, hold everything together. As if I’m not her child myself, trying to carve out some semblance of a life beyond their needs.
An unwelcome memory surfaces—me, seven years old, listening to my parents argue from behind my bedroom door, their voices a muffled tangle of frustration and strained love.
They’d married young and out of wedlock, both juggling demanding jobs, and I’d learned early on that my needs were secondary to the survival of their fragile union.
When my twin brothers, Michael and Sampson, arrived, I instinctively stepped into a role they clearly needed, trying to keep the peace, easing burdens that should never have been mine.
I remember their attempts at praise—always reluctant, always tied to the family’s needs. Like my mother’s reaction when I gotinto Halford…“Just think of how much better things will be around here when you’re earning enough to help out.”
It was never about my accomplishments; it was about what I could give back, what I could provide. I was never just their daughter; I was a resource, a way to secure their future.
A bitter ache twists in my chest. I’ve worked so hard to build a life of my own, to carve out a life that’s mine, away from the weight of their needs. But the harder I pull away, the tighter they seem to grip.
Nathaniel’s voice echoes in my mind, his suggestion from days ago about spending winter break together.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it—Christmas morning in his arms instead of rushing around trying to keep everything afloat. No frantic calls about my brothers or the diner—just Nathaniel, his lips brushing mine as the world outside ceases to exist.
