Chapter 158: New plates. New life

NOAH

But it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like a hollowed-out ache in the center of my chest. I tried to rationalize it.

I could get a new job.

A normal job with a normal boss who didn’t make frustrating his employee his source of entertainment or demand I fly across the Atlantic on an hour’s notice.

I could have a serene environment, regular hours, and a life that was boring but safe. It sounded perfect on paper. So why did it feel like I was mourning?

I thought about what was waiting for me. My small studio apartment. The silence. No Cassian. No Cyan. No chaos. Just… nothing.

Spain had been terrifying, yes. It had been dangerous and loud and traumatic. But it had felt alive. Everything about home suddenly felt stagnant and gray.

The car pulled up to my modest apartment complex. I recognized the familiar cracks in the sidewalk and the faded awning of the bodega on the ground floor.

“Thank you,” I said to the driver as I climbed out. He just nodded and pulled away immediately, not even waiting to see me get inside. I stood on the sidewalk, feeling utterly abandoned in the morning light.

As I walked toward the stairs, I passed the window where I kept a small potted plant on the sill outside my door.

It was a hardy little thing, or it had been.

Now, it was a skeletal remain… brown, dried up, the soil cracked like a desert floor. No one had watered it. It was the first casualty of my absence.

A reminder that the life I’d left behind had withered away while I was busy trying not to die in another country.

I fumbled for my keys, surprised to find them still in my backpack. I hadn’t lost them. A small miracle. I turned the lock and stepped inside.

The smell of stale air greeted me. The studio was exactly as I’d left it: bed unmade, laundry on the floor, a few dishes in the sink that were undoubtedly growing mold by now.

It was frozen in time, a museum of the person I used to be. The morning sun illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, revealing just how small and cramped the space really was.

Compared to the palatial suites of Barcelona, this was depressing. But it was mine. I dropped my bag and collapsed face-first onto the lumpy, familiar mattress. I breathed in the scent of my own pillow, and for a fleeting second, my nervous system recognized the safety. No Alex here. No danger.

But then the silence hit.

It was too quiet. I could hear my own breathing, the distant rumble of traffic, and the muffled sound of a neighbor’s TV. I could hear the landlady’s dogs barking in the alley. I used to crave this quiet. I used to dream of it after a long day at the office. Now, it felt like an absence. It felt lonely.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the water stain in the corner of the ceiling. I’d spent countless nights staring at that same stain before Spain.

I’m back, I thought. This is it. Back to normal.

So why did it feel like I was dying?

The hollow feeling in my chest expanded. I missed the noise. I missed the presence of a man who made my life hell but also made me feel like I was the center of his universe. I missed the protection. I missed him.

Why do I miss him? my mind screamed. He was cruel! He was demanding! He hurt you!

But he also saved me. He stayed when I asked him to. He had looked at me with those eyes that seemed to see everything I was trying to hide.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, as the silent tears finally began to leak from the corners of my eyes. I was home. I was safe. I was free. And I felt like I had lost everything.

….

I sat on the edge of my lumpy mattress, staring at the dust motes dancing in the shafts of morning light.

The apartment was still silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled barks.

It was depressing. It was dirty. It was exactly the “normal” I had spent months wishing for while Cassian Wolfe was breathing down my neck.

Stop it, I told myself, slapping my cheeks with both hands. Stop moping. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You wanted normal? This is it. This is the life you worked for. So act like a normal person and clean your damn house.

The determination was a thin shield, but it was all I had. I stood up, the floorboards creaking under my feet, and marched to the window. I wrenched it open, letting the cool, biting air of the city rush in to displace the stale, stagnant scent of my absence. I grabbed a roll of heavy-duty trash bags from under the sink and began to move.

It started with the trash. Takeout containers from weeks ago, crumpled wrappers, and junk mail that had been shoved under the door. Then came the kitchen. I approached the sink like I was walking into a war zone.

The sight was horrific… a mountain of dishes covered in a thick, fuzzy layer of vibrant green mold. The smell hit me like a physical blow, a sour, rotting stench that made me gag instantly.

I didn’t even try to save them. I didn’t have the emotional or physical fortitude to scrub away a month of neglect. I simply shoved the entire mess… plates, mugs, and silverware… into the trash bag.

The old life is dead, I thought, the symbolism heavy and obvious even to me. Can’t salvage it. Start fresh. New plates. New life.

I moved to the bedroom area, gathering the laundry that had been strewn across the floor in my haste to leave for Spain. As I scooped up a pile near the closet, something bright and soft caught my eye. I pulled it from the heap… a pink cardigan.

Lila’s.

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