I stayed silent for the rest of the day. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I felt.. drained.
Like everything had caught up with me at once. I barely heard my friends talking, but none of them pressed me. No teasing. No questions. Just space. And for that, I was grateful.
When I got back to the unit, I changed into an oversized black shirt and dolphin shorts, tied my hair into a messy bun, and finally took a long look around the place.
A week had passed since I moved in, but it still looked untouched—half-done, unclaimed.
The furniture I'd bought was still stacked and wrapped in the corner. Between school and back-to-back reports, I hadn't had time to settle in.
I let out a slow breath. I didn't feel like doing anything, but the mess was making my chest feel heavier. So I picked up the broom and trash bin and began to sweep.
Dust, cobwebs, wrappers from unpacked boxes—everything felt stuck in place, like the last few months of my life. I kept moving, letting the rhythm of cleaning drown out the noise in my head.
Eventually, I opened the sliding door to the veranda for some air. The cold breeze rushed in, brushing against my sweat-soaked skin. I shivered, but welcomed it. It felt like something was finally shifting.
I lost track of time mopping. At one point, I wiped the sweat off my forehead, grabbed a full trash bag, and stepped out of the unit. I wanted the place clean. Maybe if the space felt better, I would too.
The hallway was quiet, and the air felt even colder out there. I stepped into the elevator and hit the ground floor. Fifth floor—so it was a short ride.
When the doors opened, the lobby was dim and calm. The guard nodded at me. I nodded back and walked toward the entrance.
I was just about to place the trash down at the pickup area when I froze. A car door slammed in the distance. And even from where I stood, I knew exactly who it was.
Kevin.
I turned my head quickly, hoping to avoid eye contact, but it was too late. Our eyes locked for a second.
His expression shifted—surprised, almost confused—but I looked away, my pulse spiking in my ears.
"MACE!"
I didn't stop. I kept walking, faster this time, ignoring the sound of my name echoing behind me. I didn't have the energy for this. Not now. Not him.
But before I could reach the door, a hand gripped my arm—tight, almost desperate. Reflex kicked in. I yanked my arm back and spun around, glare sharp, breath unsteady.
He was standing there, chest heaving like he'd just sprinted through every mistake he'd ever made. But I didn't care. Not anymore.
"What?!" I snapped, venom sharp in my tone. "Don't tell me you just got lost around here. Or wait—maybe your mistress lives in this building too?"
I didn't even flinch as the words flew out. He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. He was starting to get pissed—but I didn't care anymore.
Every time I remembered that night, rage surged through me like wildfire. If I hadn't controlled myself... I honestly don't know where I'd be now.
Jail, probably.
"What?" I sneered. "You're just gonna stand there like a complete idiot? If you've got nothing to say, then get out of my face." I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm again.
I yanked it back hard, my glare slicing right through him. He let go instantly. I laughed bitterly and rolled my eyes.
"Touch me again and I swear—"
"Let's talk," he said, almost pleading.
I crossed my arms. "We are talking. What do you think this is, a staring contest?" I couldn't believe how stupid he sounded.
Was this what cheating did to people? Or maybe sex had fried his last working brain cell. Then he dropped the line:
"Sharon came on to me that night."
I burst out laughing. "No, really—try harder. That one was weak," I said with a tight smile, still avoiding his eyes.
"I'm sorry—"
"You're only sorry because you got caught." I faced him fully this time, and he couldn't even look me in the eye. "You cheated on me because I couldn't give you the pleasure you wanted, right?"
My voice cracked—not from sadness, but from fury I was barely keeping down.
"Mace, it's not like that—" He raised his voice.
"Then what is it?!" I shouted louder. The echo hit hard between us. He froze, guilt written all over his stupid face.
Three years. He knew I hated being shouted at. And yet here we were. I was done.
I stepped toward the entrance, needing to get away, when I stopped dead in my tracks. The elevator doors opened. And out stepped
Syron.
I blinked, confused. What the hell...?
Last I saw him, he was at Kevin's building. And now he's here? Does he follow me around? Where does he even live?
He was in house clothes—plain white shirt and black pajama pants, looking unfairly good for someone doing nothing.
His eyes shifted slightly, like he could sense he was being stared at. And he was—by me, and by a few other girls in the lobby who were practically drooling. I had enough pride to hold back.
Then his gaze slid toward Kevin. My pulse roared in my ears. I wasn't even sure Kevin was still behind me; my chest felt like it was going to explode. Then Syron stepped forward. Closer.
Two meters apart now. My breath hitched. The hallway felt smaller. Tighter. He looked straight at me, calm as ever—but something sharp flickered in his eyes. Why does he always make me feel like this?
Like the room is spinning. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm about to do something reckless.
His gaze didn't waver. Then—his voice, low and steady:
"You dropped this."
He pulled something from his pocket. My school ID—the one I'd been tearing my room apart looking for.
I took it and looked up to thank him. I'm 5'7", but standing next to him, I barely reached his neck. Six feet? Maybe taller.
"Thank you," I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest. He nodded once—expression unreadable—and walked right past me.
I thought that was it. But then I heard his voice behind me—calm, composed, deliberate.
"Ms. Morin."
I turned. "Uhm?"
He glanced over his shoulder before locking eyes with me again.
"Your boyfriend is waiting outside."
I followed his gaze. Kevin was still standing there, watching us. His stare was sharp, unreadable. I turned back to Syron and shook my head.
"He's not my boyfriend," I said flatly.
And maybe I was imagining things—but I swear, for just a second, a faint smile tugged at Syron's lips. Like he didn't want me to see it.
He nodded. "Good." Then he turned and walked away.
I stood there, brows furrowed, watching him until he disappeared through the glass doors. Good? What the hell did that even mean?
I stayed a moment longer, ID clenched in my hand. The wind had died down, but the air felt thick—heavy with unsaid things, unfinished conversations, and emotions I hadn't had time to name.
Good.
That one word echoed in my head like a pin drop in an empty room. Small. Soft. But it cracked something inside me.
I don't even remember taking the elevator. I just remember walking into my unit, dropping the trash bag by the door, and kicking it shut behind me. I didn't bother turning on the lights.
I leaned against the door, let my head fall back, and closed my eyes. God. What a mess.
Kevin's apologies, still ringing in my ears. That exhausting mix of guilt, pride, and desperation wrapped up in every word.
And then—Syron. Showing up like a glitch in my emotional system. Always where I least expected him. Always looking at me like he saw something I couldn't.
I looked down at the ID in my hand. My thumb traced the edge of the plastic. Such an ordinary thing, yet somehow, it felt symbolic—like a piece of me I'd dropped, and he was the one who found it.
Was he following me? No. That didn't feel right. But it also didn't feel like nothing.
I tossed the ID onto the kitchen counter and flopped face-first onto the couch. The silence was thick and complete. It wrapped around me like a blanket I hadn't asked for. And still, that word clawed its way back.
I don't know why it hit me the way it did. Maybe it was the tone—quiet, certain, almost possessive. Like he was relieved. Or worse... like he was claiming something he hadn't even asked for yet.
I groaned into the cushion, annoyed at myself. I should be mad. Furious. Screaming at the top of my lungs over Kevin, over Sharon, over three years I wasted on something clearly meant to break.
But instead... I was thinking about Syron's eyes. The way they held mine. The way he said my name like it mattered.
I flipped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Why did that feel like the start of something?
No. I wasn't ready for that. Not when I was still bleeding under my skin. Not when my heart was tender and my pride was hanging by a thread.
But still... a tiny, stubborn part of me stirred.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't grief. It was curiosity.