The message came at dusk.
Nathan: "Can you come over? I miss you."
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
He missed me.
After all the silence, after all the space between us — he missed me.
My chest tightened. I should've told him the truth, that I wasn't writing my exams, that Marcus hadn't sent the money. But how could I? How do you confess to the person you love that you've made a mistake you can't take back?
So I lied.
"I don't have any papers for the next three days."
He replied instantly.
"Perfect. Come tomorrow. We can talk, and… I miss your food."
That line broke me. Because it sounded so ordinary, and I wasn't ordinary anymore — not after everything that had happened.
The next day, I packed a small bag and left for his place. The city moved slow, like it knew what I was hiding.
When Nathan opened the door, he smiled — that same smile that used to make everything in me quiet down.
"Elena," he breathed, pulling me into a hug. "I've missed you."
I let him hold me. My hands shook slightly against his back.
"I missed you too," I whispered, the words tasting like a lie wrapped in love.
He led me inside, his house smelling like cinnamon and music. His guitar leaned in the corner, unfinished lyrics scattered on the table.
"I'm sorry I've been distant," he said finally. "I was just trying to prepare for exams, balance music, and—"
He exhaled. "I didn't mean to shut you out."
I nodded. "It's okay."
It wasn't. But I said it anyway.
He smiled faintly. "You cooked for me once before my test. Maybe you can bless me with that again?"
"Sure," I replied softly. "Maybe."
But as he talked — about chords, rehearsals, his lecturers — my mind was elsewhere.
What if Marcus told him?
What if he found out?
Would he still touch me the same way? Would he still call me his peace?
My phone buzzed.
It was a text from my friend: "Elena, where are you? You missed the paper again."
I froze. My throat felt dry.
Nathan noticed. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. "Just school group chat being noisy."
He smiled and leaned closer, brushing his thumb across my cheek. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," I said. "Just… tired of thinking."
He kissed my forehead. "Then stop thinking for a while. Just rest here, okay?"
I nodded again, pretending to believe I could.
That night, while he hummed a song in the next room, I sat by the window watching the moon slide past the glass. My chest felt heavy — like a confession begging to be said but chained to silence.
And for the first time, I realized something cruel about guilt:
It doesn't shout.
It whispers — softly, patiently, until you can't hear anything else.
I turned to look at him — peaceful, focused, alive — and thought,
What if he finds out? What if the love that saved me starts to burn me instead?
The clock ticked loud in the quiet.
I smiled at him one more time, and whispered under my breath,
"God, please don't let the truth ruin the only good thing I have left."