Page 154 of Cain
It’s been days. I’ve lost count—maybe five? Let’s say five.
Five days without a word between us.
She hasn’t talked to me, and I haven’t spoken to her. Of course, I know what she’s been doing. I made sure of that. That’s why the cameras are there, tucked in the corners of her room.
She avoids coming out of her room whenever I’m around, and I avoid making the first move. Real mature, right?
So here we are, right back at the start. Same cold silence, same goddamn tension.
Only now, it’s different. Now, I’m pacing like a dumbass in the hallway, overthinking every fucking step.
Back then, I’d walk in, say what I wanted, and take what I wanted.
Fuck. I’ve gone soft.
I hover like some awkward idiot in my own damn house.
God, I’ve turned into a complete wuss. What the hell happened to me?
Why is it that now all I think about is the fear in her eyes when I yelled in her face, as if it were her fault.
Fuck. I’m a horrible fucking person.
All she wanted was to help me get my shit together, move on, maybe breathe again like a normal human.
And what did I do? I yelled at her. I pushed her away like she was the problem.
Now all I feel is this fucked-up mix of guilt and regret sitting in my chest like a cinder block. She didn’t deserve that. Not the way she drew back when I raised my voice.
Goddamn it, I hate myself for that.
I breathe deeply through my nostrils, brush my hair back, fix my shirt, and make up my mind.
I want to see her. Ineedto see her.
Decisively, I march toward her bedroom. Outside her door, I spot a vase of fresh roses sitting on the hallway table. I take one in my hand—the most beautiful of the bunch. Not fully bloomed, but not just a bud, either. I inhale, letting its velvety smell relax my mind.
And I knock on the door.
“Yes?”
I open it and see her sitting on the bed, bored. Of course she’s bored.
“Can I come in?” I ask. Why is my heart pounding?
“Of course,” she says and turns away, pretending to be indifferent. Is she?
I walk inside and close the door behind me. I stop right next to the bed and study her for a moment.
She’s tense. Awkward as hell. She won’t even meet my eyes.
Ah, babe … I miss the days when I didn’t second-guess shit. When I didn’t wait for a yes because I already knew it was there, written all over her face.
Back then, I’d corner her, pin her down, and fuck the hesitation right out of her.
Now I’m standing here with a half-bloomed rose and a guilty conscience like some moody asshole in a bad romance novel.
“This is for you,” I say softly, tracing the petals over her bare shoulder.
