Page 9 of Hymns of the Broken
“You don’t get to tell me he’s ‘just upset’, or ‘just being dramatic’, or ‘just tired’ or any of the other bullshit you’ve used to defend him for the past two years.”
“Mace—”
“No.” Her eyes are bright now, but mostly furious. “You don’t deserve that. Not because you’ve had a screwed-up childhood. Not because you’re scared of being too much or not enough or whatever lie you keep telling yourself to get through it.”
She grabs my wrist firmly. “You. Don’t. Deserve. That.”
My throat tightens. I want to argue, to say something that makes it all smaller than it is. But the words get stuck somewhere between my guilt and her truth.
“You’re not broken,” she says, softer now. “But even if you were, that doesn’t give him the right to punish you for it.”
Silence.
Then—like the world knows exactly how to twist the knife—my phone buzzes again. We both already know who it is.
Macee stares at me. “Please don’t go home tonight.” Macee’s eyes are pleading, but Ican’t meet them.
“I have to go home,” I whisper. “Blake probably won’t even be there when I get back,” I say too fast. “He just…gets dramatic. He’ll get tired of waiting for me to get home.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I hate myself for saying them. They sound pathetic. Weak. But it’s not weakness—it’s survival logic. The kind you learn when love comes with conditions and apologies come with strings.
Macee crosses her arms, jaw tight. “And if he is there?”
I shrug, “Then I’ll handle it.”
She shakes her head. “Sawyer, this isn’t something you ‘handle’. It’s toxic and controlling. This is showing up at your apartment uninvited and demanding obedience like you’re a damn possession.”
“I just...” I grip the edge of my camera bag like it might anchor me. “I can deal with everything tonight. It’ll be fine.”
Macee steps closer. “You keep saying that, but you’re not.”
My eyes sting, and I turn away—just to catch my breath so I can pull myself together before I crack in the middle of the backstage chaos.
That’s when I see a flicker of movement in the corner of my vision, half-hidden behind the thick velvet curtain near the rigging. At first, I tell myself it’s nothing—just a shadow, a trick of the light catching on black fabric.
But shadows don’t watch you.
And he’s watching.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
Jasper.
And he’s looking at me exactly like he did earlier—steady, sure, like he’s already decided I belong to him and is just waiting for me to realize it.
A chill slithers up my spine, curling beneath my skin, but it isn’t fear. It’s awareness—like I’ve wandered into one of those stalker romance novels I love to read.
Macee doesn’t notice. She’s still focused on me, her voice tight with worry, trying to fix me with the only tools she has—words. But I can’t hear her anymore.
I recognize that look. Hunger and anger. He heard every word, and I don’t know what he plans to do with it.
***
At the end of the night, I give Macee a quick goodbye and promise to let her know when I make it home. Macee is still muttering something about crashing at her place, but I don’t respond. I wave as I slip my camera bag over my shoulder, and push through the back exit.
I slide into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of leather wrapping around me like a comforting hug. I turn on my favorite metal playlist and turn the volume almost all the way up. Too bad my mind’s louder.
He won’t be there.
