Locked In

23

THEON

I haven’t eaten since she left here.

I’d been sitting at my computer, switching between staring at her closed curtains and her living room through surveillance feed, waiting for any sign of movement. Hoping that at some point, she’d pull the curtains back and let me see her. Two in the morning, and the curtains were still drawn. Was she asleep? Curled up on her bed? Pacing around her room? Still crying?

I hated the thought of her crying.

Earlier, when she finally came out after hours of hiding in her room—hours that almost had me sprinting to her place just to check if she was okay—I felt a wave of relief. Even though I knew she was cleaning just to distract herself from what had happened, I was glad. Glad that for a moment, she wasn’t crying. I’d watched her every move, unable to tear my eyes away. Every second of not knowing what she was doing ate at me, at something dark and obsessive deep inside. I knew she’d hate me watching her, but I couldn’t stop. Not seeing her, not knowing, drove me to the point of madness.

I didn’t want to text her. I really didn’t.

She needed space, time to breathe, to process everything that had gone down between us. I was trying—I was really trying—to give her that. But when I saw she hadn’t eaten anything, not in over twenty-four hours, and that she was wearing herself thin with chores, I couldn’t stay silent. I had to do something. I ordered her food.

She didn’t touch it, of course.

But she ate. I made her eat. That was a win.

I flicked through the feeds—her front porch, the kitchen, the living room, the tree outside her window. All still and quiet. She must’ve gone to bed.

Stretching, I groaned as pain shot through my back. I hadn’t eaten or slept either, but I couldn’t. Not with the regret that clung to me, the heavy guilt that wouldn’t let me rest. I hated the person I was. Not the me from six years ago. Not the me who followed her on that trip after just a day of trying to live without her. That idiot thought he could last three days without seeing her, but by the end of the first day, I was already travelling, chasing her like my life depended on it. It did.

It was that second night that I found her, far from the camp, wandering in the woods.

I’d been awake, restless, obsessing over her when I saw her tracker moving. She wasn’t supposed to be out there. That green dot had been still for over an hour, and I’d assumed she was sleeping. But suddenly, it moved, heading deeper into the woods. I had panicked and I grabbed my clothes, running blindly into the night to catch up with her.

I’d followed that dot for what felt like hours, my mind racing with thoughts of what could’ve happened to her. When the dot stopped moving, so did I—my heart pounding, my mind flashing with worst-case scenarios. And then I saw him. The man.

He was dragging a sack. Something heavy and lumpy, the side stained with dark red streaks.

For a terrifying moment, my heart stopped. I’d thought it was her. My hands had trembled so hard I nearly dropped my phone, staring at that green dot on the screen as if it could give me some hope. It was still there, still glowing, still alive.

But that didn’t stop the panic from tearing through me. I had to get to the green dot first. I ran as the figure with the sack disappeared into the distance until I saw it—a warehouse, rundown and isolated.

And she was there. Ainsley.

I didn’t hate that version of myself.

That version of me only cared about protecting and seeing her. It was the other me I despised. The one who fell off that cliff, into the waters, and woke up from a coma with a heart full of anger. The one who decided to destroy her life. That version of me was rash. And now, I had to live with it.

Needing a break from the computer, my eyes aching from the hours of staring, I stepped outside.

The wind hit me first—sharp, cold, reminding me that Halloween was just four days away. The yard was littered with dead leaves, scattered across the pavement, some swept up by gusts of wind. The air felt colder than the night before, a biting chill that cut through my clothes and stung my skin. She’d need something warm tomorrow.

I knew she was working at that woman’s cafe tomorrow. I couldn’t help myself—after everything I’d put her through, I wanted to make sure her day was comfortable. Something to make up for the hell I’d caused her.

Back inside, I went straight to my computer, ignoring the old search history that taunted me:

How to apologise to a girl.

Do girls still like flowers?

What do I do when I make her angry?

How long do girls stay mad for?

I searched for something practical instead—something useful. Shoes.

I found it. A pair of insulated work boots designed to keep feet warm on cold days. Exactly what she’d need. I wanted her to feel comfortable, even if she was mad at me.

By eight in the morning, the shoes had arrived. I took them over, placing the box at her doorstep before retreating behind a block, waiting. It was twenty minutes before her front door opened, and she stopped dead on seeing the box. Clad in jeans and red shirt with brown hair that was wavier than usual, she had never looked more beautiful. When she started to glance around in confusion, I typed a message.

Me : Pretend it’s not from me. Wear them. It’s cold.

She huffed, her expression hard as she slammed the door shut, determined to ignore the gift after reading the message. She strode past it, and she stopped, her body tensing. Then, she gave in, gritting her teeth as she grabbed the box and disappeared back inside. Minutes later, when she came back out, the shoes were on her feet. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the effort of pretending she didn’t appreciate it.

But she did.