Page 3 of His To Erase

By the time I finally step outside, the night air is sharp as it creeps beneath my jacket. The streets are quiet, just the occasional car rolling by, headlights cutting through the dark. I pull out my phone and glance at the text from Frank.

If you need a ride, just let me know.

No thanks.

The last thing I need is another favor I didn’t ask for. I walk fast, my boots hitting the pavement in steady, measured steps, but something feels… off.

Not normal-girl-walking-alone-at-night off. Not even city-level-caution off.

It’s the kind of off that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like they’ve been personally briefed on incoming danger.

I glance over my shoulder, but the street’s empty. Every instinct I have is screaming. Not whispering. Not nudging. Screaming.

I know what it feels like to be followed. I know the difference between anxiety and experience. But it’s not paranoia if it’s happened before, right?

My keys are already in my hand by the time I turn the corner. I don’t look back again, because looking back makes it real.

My heart’s hammering by the time I reach my building. The entrance is half in shadow, and the flickering light above the door is doing that lovely horror-movie thing where it buzzes once, then goes dark.

Perfect.

I shove the key into the lock, twist, and duck inside like the door might disappear behind me. Then I slam it shut and lock it, pressing my back to it, just for good measure.

I don’t hear anything.

No footsteps.

No breathing.

No horror-movie reveal.

Just silence.

The only thing I hear is the quiet sound of my own pulse trying to climb into my throat. I pause, taking a deep breath. Okay, maybe that was nothing and I was being paranoid.

I drop my keys onto the counter and exhale. The worst part about running from your past isn’t the running itself. It’s the way you never stop looking over your shoulder, waiting for the moment it finally catches up.

I take off my boots and let them crash against the wall, one bouncing off at an angle like even they’re tired of holding it together.

My jacket follows, sliding off my shoulders, it hits the floor with a damp thud. I should hang it up, but I don’t.

The air in here is stale—cold in that weird, bone-deep way that sticks around no matter how many times I mess with the heater. Like the apartment itself has just… given up.

The couch is older than my trauma, sagging like it’s seen some shit and decided it no longer has the strength to care. There’s a tear in the armrest that I keep pretending isn’t growing and like most things in my life, it came damaged and I took it anyway.

The kitchen’s more of a suggestion than a functional space.

The fridge hums like it’s threatening to quit.

It’s loud and a little too passive-aggressive.

The cabinet holds a mismatched graveyard of mugs and takeout containers I swear I’ll recycle someday.

There’s no art on the walls. No warm lights.

No fake plants. No half-assed attempts to convince anyone—including myself—that this is a place someone lives in, not just crashes in between jobs.

Just the essentials. Just enough to survive another day.

The only exception is my books.

They’re everywhere. Piled on the floor. Stacked on chairs. Stuffed into the one rickety shelf I drug home after a thrift store haul. It holds all my leather-bound classics, poetry anthologies, and stories about monsters, villains, and happy endings.

It’s a far cry from the life I used to have.

Once upon a time, my apartment had matching furniture. A real couch. A full set of dishes. Shelves that weren’t collapsing under the weight of bad decisions and trauma bonding with paperback spines.

The place felt warm, and lived in. Safe.

I had space, a bathroom door that locked without a prayer, and a bed that didn’t scream in protest every time I turned over.

I also didn’t used to fall asleep wondering if someone was watching me from across the street—or if the next knock on the door was going to unravel whatever sanity I had left.

But sure. I’m thriving.

I rub a hand over my face trying to shake it off. There’s no use romanticizing what’s already gone.

That life? That girl? She didn’t make it.

I make my way to the bathroom, flipping on the light, and I meet my reflection like I’m checking in with a stranger who owes me answers.

The mirror above the sink is cracked in the corner like a spiderweb of glass, spreading like a warning.

My dark eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, and my hair is falling out of the braid I threw together twenty minutes before my shift. This girl looks like she’s seen some shit.

I peel off my work clothes one layer at a time, swapping them for sweatpants and the oversized hoodie that knows all my secrets. This part’s all routine.

Change.

Eat.

Try to sleep.

Wake up.

Repeat.

It’s not a life, but it’s working for now. And sometimes, that’s all survival really is.

I head into the kitchen and yank open the fridge door. It groans like it hates me, and the bulb flickers revealing the depressing inventory of a woman with commitment issues and no interest in grocery shopping.

There’s half a carton of milk, a takeout container that might be from last week—or last month, honestly, it’s a gamble—and a half-eaten roll of cookie dough I’ve been pretending is breakfast.

I slam the door shut and reach for the mac and cheese in the cabinet instead. The blue box kind. The one that doesn’t ask questions or require emotional investment.

Filling a pot with water, I set it on the stove and crank the burner until the gas hisses and finally catches with a flickering flame that looks just as exhausted as I feel.

Minimal effort. Minimal thinking. It’s all I have the energy for tonight.

As I wait for the water to boil, I lean against the counter and cross my arms like that’s going to keep the thoughts in.

I’m all auto pilot right now. I stir the noodles, drain them, then dump in the powdered cheese and the splash of milk that may or may not be flirting with its expiration date. It mixes into a color that shouldn't exist in nature as the smell hits the air.

I take a bite straight from the pot, and naturally it’s too hot, and burns my tongue, but I barely flinch.

My mind drifts—uninvited, like it always does when things get quiet. And I let it. Because fighting it takes more energy than I have tonight.

It’s almost been a year since I got here.

Long enough that the nightmares have changed shape, and long enough that the bruises have faded.

It’s been almost as long since I found Frank bleeding out in that alley, slumped against a wall like he had all the time in the world. Five months since I hesitated when I should have just called for help and walked away.

I didn’t even plan on going down the alley.

Sarah, my just as unhinged best friend was the one who was supposed to take out the trash before she left—basic end-of-shift protocol. But does she ever actually finish a shift without getting distracted by something shiny or flirty?

Of course not.

She bailed early—again—probably climbed onto the back of some guy’s motorcycle while I got stuck doing her closing duties. Best friend of the year. Truly.

So there I was, grumbling to myself, dragging out the trash and mentally writing her obituary—when I saw him.

At first, I thought he was just another drunk guy slumped against the wall, breathing through whatever bad decisions landed him there.

I was going to leave him. I swear I was. But then I saw the blood and heard the gasp.

“Help.”

Just that. Barely a whisper. But it landed like a punch. And now I can’t shake him.

Sighing, I toss the spoon into the sink with more force than necessary, and drag myself to the couch, sinking into the worn cushions like they might swallow me whole if I ask nicely.

I grab my phone out of habit—not because I want to be online, but because the silence is louder without the glow of distraction.

I swipe the screen, scrolling through meaningless updates, vacation photos, engagement announcements, and baby bumps. There’s an occasional post from someone I used to know—people who have no idea where I am. People who think I just disappeared.

Which, to be fair, I did.

I left everything behind. Burned the trail, and slammed the door, locking it from the other side.

But no matter how far I run, no matter how many nights I spend staring at this same cracked ceiling in a city where no one says my name—it never feels far enough.

I open the message thread with the lunatic I call my best friend.

Me: In case you’re wondering, I’m still alive.

I made boxed mac and cheese and only cried a little.

I’m calling it a win. You’d be proud.

AND I didn’t set anything on fire.

Sarah: YET. Proud doesn’t even cover it. This is growth. Boxed carbs and emotionally suppressed tears? You’re basically thriving.

Do I send flowers or a fire extinguisher?

Me: Whichever one comes with wine.

Sarah: Noted. Care package incoming. But you don’t drink? Did we start? Also, don’t think I won’t show up and drag your emotionally unavailable ass home if you go dark again for another week.

The days blend together. Work. Sleep. Repeat.

Every couple of nights, like clockwork, Frank strolls into the bar, slides onto the same damn stool, and watches me with that smirk—the one that says he knows exactly how our conversation will go.

“How about dinner, Ani?"

"No thanks."

"You’re breaking my heart, doll."

"Good. Maybe it’ll make you stop asking."

But he never does. He keeps coming back, keeps watching me, and keeps acting like he knows something I don’t.

Tonight’s no different.

He settles in like he owns the place, fingers drumming an easy rhythm against the counter, patience stitched into his every movement.

"You know," he muses, tilting his head slightly, "some would call this playing hard to get. You don’t even text me back anymore."

I don’t bother looking up as I dry a glass, keeping my voice flat. "And some would call this not interested."

"Hmm." He takes a slow sip of his drink, like he’s actually considering that. "See, that’s where I’m struggling. If you were really not interested, you’d have thrown me out by now."

I let out a slow breath, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. He’s not wrong, and that pisses me off more than I want to admit.

"Trust me, Frank, it’s something I think about daily."

His grin is dripping with something unreadable. "That right?"

"Absolutely."

"And yet," he leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that the words curl into something smug, "here I am."

I narrow my eyes, watching as he signals for another drink like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I pour it without a word, setting it down with a little more force than necessary, so it sloshes on the counter.

He doesn’t even break eye contact. He just lifts the glass and takes a slow sip.

"You know what I like about you, baby girl?"

"That I don’t like you?" I deadpan, already moving to clean up an empty glass left behind next to him.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "The fact that you’re a terrible liar."

My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral. He’s wrong. I’m an excellent liar. It’s why I’m still alive.

I turn away from him, busying myself with stacking the clean glasses, but he’s still there, his presence pressing against me even without him moving an inch.

"You could make this easy," he says after a moment. "One date. One dinner. Then, if you still don’t like me, I’ll leave you alone."

I glance at him, unimpressed. "You really expect me to believe that?"

He places a hand over his heart, trying his hardest to look offended. "You wound me."

“Good,” I mutter, brushing past him to grab another bottle from the wall. “Maybe it’ll finally make you stop harassing me.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—like I just confirmed he’s winning whatever game we’re playing. Like rejection’s just foreplay to him.

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“Exactly,” he says, all smooth arrogance and way too much eye contact. “Which means you’re doing something wrong.”

God, he’s relentless.

I scan the room for a lifeline—someone who needs a refill, someone vomiting on a barstool, literally anything to save me from this conversation. But there’s nothing.

“Or you just have a problem with rejection.”

I say it like I’m commenting on the weather. I’ve said no to him so many times it’s practically my job title at this point, but he just grins like I handed him another reason to stay. Maybe that’s the problem, maybe guys like him don’t hear “no.” Maybe they hear “not yet.”

Maybe they’re always looking for the crack in your armor instead of respecting the fact that it’s there for a reason.

But, I don’t say any of that.

I just keep pouring drinks and pretending he doesn’t make my skin itch in a way that feels too familiar.

He watches me while his fingers trace patterns against the counter, and I know what he’s doing. "You call it rejection, I call it persistence."

I shake my head, biting back a smirk that’s more reflex than amusement. I still don’t know what his angle is. Maybe he just likes the chase. Or he sees something in me he can’t quite name—some crack in the foundation he wants to dig his hands into. Or maybe he just gets off on watching me squirm.

Wouldn’t be the first.

Either way—I don’t trust him. Not with his smile, not with his persistence, and definitely not with the way his eyes linger. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the distraction.

I exhale through my nose, setting down the last clean glass and grip the edge of the counter like it might have the answers I don’t.

Because I know what’s coming. He’s not going to stop asking.

He’s going to keep showing up and pushing.

Keep circling until he either gets what he wants—or I finally break character.

So maybe it’s time to end the game. Maybe I will say yes. Just once. Just enough to remind myself why I don’t say yes in the first place.

I turn, leveling him with a look. "One date."

Frank stills. It’s brief—so quick I almost miss it—but it’s there. That flicker of something behind his eyes, something sharp and knowing, like he was just waiting for me to break first.

His smirk curves slowly. "You sure, sweetheart? Hate to think you’re giving in already."

I cross my arms. "Don’t flatter yourself. The sooner this happens, the sooner you stop asking."

He lifts his glass, tilting it toward me in a slow, lazy toast before taking a sip. "We’ll see."

I roll my eyes, already regretting this. "Pick a time and place, and I’ll meet you there."

He sets his glass down with a quiet clink, standing with that same practiced ease, adjusting the cuffs of his suit like he knew this was inevitable.

Smug bastard.

“Smart decision.”

I scoff. "It’s a pity date—don’t get ahead of yourself."