Symphony Of Lies (Inked Hearts 2)

21

Margot first person pov:

I follow the man through the halls and toward the elevator that will take me up to the private part of the building where my soulmate is and works, each step harder and less sure. Doubt pricks my skin the closer I get to him, the farther from the safety of the known I go.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe a week is too soon. I could have waited longer to see him again. I could have just messaged him instead...

But then again, I'm not the greatest at texting and am perhaps even more awkward on the phone than I am in person; especially when it comes to him.

I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to him, when it comes to us. I don't know how to act around him or how to behave. I don't even know how to be friends with him, no less a couple–

But we're not there yet so I shouldn't even be worrying about that yet... I have enough to stress about already.

Park Jimin. Park Jimin.

His name rings in my head like the chimes that follow his footfalls; melodic and in perfect harmony.

The pure self-made determination that brought me here to this country and building clouds away some of the doubt and urges me to continue on my way to see him. Determination to get through this and be better than my past. Determination to not hurt him anymore, to be better for him, and be more like the person he deserves... a person I'm afraid I will never be.

I follow the man inside the elevator and watch the doors close at a slow, resting pace. The doors mock me in their taunting crawl, whispering at me that it's not too late to run. But I won't. Not this time. At least, I hope I won't.

I hate whispers. I hate hearing them inside my head.

Slowly the floor numbers tick by as the elevator rises. My heartbeat gets faster with each passing floor. I take a shallow breath and force myself not to shift on my feet or tug my jacket collar closer to my neck or fidget with the ring that covers my tattoo. Not in front of the man.

Since leaving France, I have allowed myself to fidget and allow some signs of my discomfort to show. My parents always hated it, especially when my discomfort came from things they would say and do. Will never liked it either and never failed to remind me of his dislike for it. So I never swallowed nervously, never shifted my stance, never mumbled or stuttered, or wrung my hands. But I don't have to suppress that part of me now. Still, it's almost more stressful to allow myself to fidget than it is to continue standing stock still. However, this man in the elevator with me has already given me a slightly questioning and curious look, and I'd rather not let him see my nervousness and hesitancy.

I don't know how to stop being the person I was for them. I don't know how to be me. I don't even know who I am without all their rules and restrictions. I don't know to find who I am either.

The elevator stops moving and the doors open with a ding. He steps out and I follow him through the brightly lit hall. My eyes glance up at the ceiling and the corners of the hall but I don't see any cameras. I resist the urge to look back at the elevator as I think about a potential escape plan. I wonder if I could outrun the man. Probably not.

We turn into another hall and he stops. I stop a meter from him. My shoulders lock. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet. I can feel every part of me pause and tense.

He turns around to face me and lowers his head. "It's the door on the left, Miss." he says gesturing with his hand.

I don't relax.