Page 26 of Deliah

T he next day, daylight crept through the blinds like guilt.

My head was pounding. My mouth was dry, my stomach hollow.

I sat up slowly, nausea curling behind my ribs.

The apartment was quiet. His jacket was gone.

So was he. I looked around like maybe he’d left a note.

A sign. Anything. But there was nothing.

Just a half-drunk glass of water on the counter.

I ran a hand over my face, and it came back smudged with mascara.

And all I could think was: What the fuck have I done?

I’d shown him everything. The mess. The rage.

The damage. I’d used him like a painkiller and pushed him away like poison.

And he’d held me through it. Then left. And I couldn’t even blame him.

This was the part where I realised I might have already lost the one person who saw me and didn’t flinch.

The one who stayed—right up until I proved I didn’t know how to let someone stay.

I’d barely woken up, and my shift was starting in a couple of hours.

I’d slept through most of the afternoon, if you could even call it sleep.

The weight of the night before sat heavy in my stomach.

Thick and nauseating. Every word I’d thrown at Damion echoed in my skull like an unwanted soundtrack.

How can I love someone like that? You don’t know me. What the fuck are you even doing here?

I’d been messy and unhinged. Slurring and sobbing and using him like some kind of emotional sponge. Why would he want to be involved in this shit? In me?

Then the door burst open. Cherry came stumbling in, laughing way too loudly for how fragile I felt.

“I just got the sack!” she announced like she was sharing a pregnancy test.

I jolted upright. “You what?”

She collapsed onto the edge of my bed, still in yesterday’s makeup and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t hers.

“Yep. Apparently, everyone saw Tommy and me dry-humping down the strip. Archie rang—said I’m officially done.”

“For fuck’s sake, Cherry.” I rubbed my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said too quickly, half laughing.

But her eyes didn’t match the smile. They were glassy, too bright. She was scared. I knew that look. Scared she’d blown everything for a boy who might not stick around.

Scared she’d misread the signals, that it meant more to her than it did to him. Still, she tried to brush it off.

“Anyway. What happened to you last night?” she asked, toeing off her shoes. “I saw you leave with Damion...”

I hesitated. My throat felt dry again, like my body was warning me not to speak it out loud. “He walked me home,” I said. “That’s all.”

She raised a brow. “That’s all?”

I nodded. Forced a shrug. “I don’t have the energy to explain.”

“You two are weird,” she muttered. “He’s a quiet one, but fucking fit.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Just a little. “Yeah. I think I fucked it with him.”

“Why d’you think that?”

I sighed, pulling the duvet tighter around me like it could hide me from my own guilt. “Because of everything with Jay yesterday. Because I was drunk and angry and spiralling. Why would Damion want to get dragged into that?”

She looked at me for a beat, serious now. “Don’t be daft, Deliah. You’re just hungover and overthinking it.”

I wanted to believe her. But I couldn’t. The silence Damion left behind was louder than any fight I’d ever had. I forced a smile and pushed myself upright.

“Anyway. Time to get my glad rags on. Club life waits for no one. Fucking great.”

Cherry snorted. “You need concealer and holy water, babe.”

She wandered out, leaving me in the dim quiet again.

I sat for a while, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My eyes were still raw from crying, skin pale beneath the remnants of makeup I hadn’t bothered to wipe away properly.

I didn’t want to do my hair. Didn’t want to put on lashes or heels or fake a smile for drunk strangers.

But I did. I pulled myself together—just enough.

Painted the mask back on. Because falling apart in private was fine.

But out there, I still had a job to do. Even if the person in the mirror didn’t quite look like me anymore.

It had been over two weeks, and I’d heard nothing from Damion.

Not a message. Not a call. Not even a fucking full stop.

I kept checking my phone like an idiot. I figured he’d finally seen what a car crash I was and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.

And honestly? I would have done the same.

He came into my life like calm after a hurricane, and I hit him with a category five mess.

What did I expect? But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

I cried most nights. Silent, embarrassing tears into my pillow like I was seventeen again.

Not because I was heartbroken. No—it hadn’t even got far enough for that.

But because, for once, I let someone see behind the curtain… and they left anyway.

Work felt like hell. Every song grated. Every man who tried to touch me made my skin crawl.

My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore—just a costume I had to wear until I could crawl back to bed and fall apart again.

And the silence? That was the worst part.

It was loud. Echoing. A constant reminder that I’d let something good slip through my fingers.

Then—my phone buzzed. I picked it up, expecting Cherry or another shift reminder. But no.

Jay: Babe, how did we get here? How did we end up in this place? I’m sorry about the other week. Can I come and see you?

I stared at the message like it might catch fire in my hands.

What the actual fuck? He had the audacity to waltz back in after everything?

After screaming at me in public? After watching me unravel and still doing nothing to help?

I wanted to ignore him. Wanted to delete it.

Block his number. Burn my phone. Move to a different country.

But I didn’t.

Because the truth was—I was tired. Lonely. Empty in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

Damion was clearly done with me. And even if Jay was poison, he was familiar. And sometimes familiar feels safer than silence. I typed slowly. Hesitated. Deleted. Rewrote. Sent anyway.

Me: I don’t know, Jay. I don’t know how we got here. But I need the old you back.

It was pathetic. I knew that. But still, his reply came fast.

Jay: I miss you, baby. Let me make it up to you. I know I’ve been a prick. Please. Let me explain. Just once.

My heart thudded. Not from love. From fear. From shame. From knowing exactly what this was and still stepping towards it anyway. Every part of me screamed no. But I typed anyway.

Me: Fine. Come over after my shift.

And just like that, I opened the door again, knowing full well he’d probably slam it in my face. But loneliness does strange things to people. And I was no exception.

It was almost 5 a.m. The streets outside were silent, the kind of quiet that only exists in the hours before the sun comes up.

I’d finished my shift early. My heels were off before I even got to the front door.

My makeup smudged, lashes half-hanging. I looked how I felt—drained.

Hollow. Cracked open in places I couldn’t name.

I stood in the kitchen, fingers hovering over my phone. My thumb trembled as I typed.

Me: I’m home now.

Ten minutes later, he was at my door. He walked in like he’d never left. Like everything between us hadn’t been reduced to screaming matches and slammed doors. He didn’t even hesitate. Just wrapped his arms around me like I belonged there and the last week hadn’t happened.

“Come here, you idiot. You know I love you to bits. I’ve missed you.” His voice was soft. Really soft. It made something in me ache.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Jay?” I mumbled against his shoulder.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I loved you—I still love you. And I just… I fuck everything up. Everyone who cares about me. I hurt them. I don’t know how to stop.”

I blinked, my heart a warzone of logic and longing. “You hurt me, Jay. Over and over. That’s not love.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “What we have… it’s passion. It’s fire. We fight, we fuck, we scream—but that’s us. That’s what makes it real.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I want. Not anymore.” I paused, then added quietly, “I want the old us back.”

His face softened like I’d touched a nerve. “I want that too,” he said quickly. “I know I’ve fucked up. Over and over. But please, just give me one more chance. I swear to God, Deliah, I’ll never hurt you again.”

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him more than I wanted to breathe. But deep down, I knew better.

Still, I crumbled.

I didn’t have the heart to argue. Didn’t have the strength to list the lies, the letdowns, the bruises he’d left behind—ones no one could see. I was too tired. Too raw and too desperate for someone to stay.

“Okay,” I whispered.

And then he kissed me. I let him. His lips tasted like nostalgia.

Like cigarettes and regret and a hundred promises we’d broken.

It wasn’t like before. No fireworks. No flames licking at my skin.

Just warmth and familiarity. Safety wrapped in lies I was too fucked to untangle.

We didn’t rush. There was no hunger in it.

Just this slow, sad echo of what we used to be.

I clung to him like a lifeline. Not because I loved him anymore—but because I remembered what love once felt like with him.

And sometimes, remembering is easier than being alone.

I knew it was wrong. I knew this wasn’t what I wanted, not really.

But you do crazy things when you’re lonely.

And even crazier things when you’ve convinced yourself it might still be love.

And that was it. We made it to the bedroom without saying much. Just the sound of our breathing and the shuffle of clothes falling to the floor. He kissed me like he was trying to remind me who he used to be, and if he said it enough with his mouth, I’d believe it.

Forget everything else. Forgive everything else. His hands slid over my waist, up under my top—slow, like he thought I might break. But I already had. Long before tonight.

He pulled my dress over my head and let it fall to the floor. Just stood there for a second, staring at me like I was something he’d lost and never thought he’d get back.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled him closer.

Because if I stopped to speak, I’d start crying again.

He kissed my neck. My shoulders. His lips were soft and slow like an apology.

Maybe he thought that if he were gentle enough, he could take back the past. Like he was scared I’d vanish beneath him if he moved too fast.

Our bodies moved without rhythm at first—just need. Not lust. Not fire. Just aching familiarity. He lay me down, kissed me deeply, fingers brushing the sides of my face like I was made of porcelain. And then he was inside me—slow and warm and overwhelming in the worst, most perfect way.

“I love you,” he whispered into the crook of my neck. “I need you. I’m sorry.”

Every word sank into my skin like poison—and I didn’t just let it. I swallowed it like I needed it.

I held onto him like he was air. Let my legs wrap around his waist. My arms clung to his back.

My mouth pressed into his shoulder to muffle the sounds of all the things I wasn’t saying.

We moved together like we used to. Like muscle memory.

But it didn’t feel the same. It was slower.

Sadder. I was pretending it meant something it didn’t anymore.

He looked at me like he still loved me, as if he was trying to remember how we used to fit. But it felt like trying to hold on to a dream that was already fading.

His forehead pressed against mine as he whispered again, “I miss you, baby. I’ve missed you so much.”

I nodded. I didn’t know why. Maybe I missed him too. Or maybe I just missed someone.

When I came, it was quiet. Not explosive.

Not wild. Just this soft, aching wave of release.

I was exhaling pain, letting go of something I didn’t realise I’d been gripping so tightly.

And then he collapsed beside me. Wrapped himself around me like nothing had changed and we were still us.

As if the damage was just a dream we’d woken up from.

I let him hold me because it was easier than moving, or speaking, or facing the truth.

His fingers traced soft circles on my back, just like they used to when we were happy.

When things were good. When I still believed in promises that came at 5 a.m. But now?

Now the silence between us felt like a wound that wouldn’t close.

And I lay there in the dark, blinking at the ceiling, thinking, Maybe this isn’t love .

Maybe it never had been. Maybe it was just a familiar place to hide.

A place where I could pretend for a little longer that I wasn’t broken.

A place where the past could wrap itself around me and feel warm again—even if it was only for one night.

I stared at the ceiling, wide awake, while he breathed steadily beside me. His arm slung over my waist like I was his. And still, I didn’t move. Because sometimes, even poison tastes like comfort. And I wasn’t ready to be strong again. Not yet.