Perfect obsession || book 2

VIII - intervention

-Intervention-

Jasper's pov

The room was filled with the pungent scent of whiskey, a familiar aroma that clung to the air like a stubborn ghost. I sat on the worn-out couch in my dimly lit living room, nursing a glass of amber liquid, the ice cubes clinking against the sides.

The distant hum of a television set provided a backdrop to my solitary evening, a dull glow emanating from the screen. It was a scene that had become all too routine for me.

The knock on the door disrupted the desolate atmosphere. I frowned, wondering who would be interrupting my solitude at this hour. When I swung the door open, I was met with the stern expressions of my brother Nate and his fiancée Amara.

A knot tightened in my stomach as I saw the disappointment etched on their faces. I rolled my eyes looking at them, hand in hand standing in front of me. My heart clenched looking at the stone which sat on Amara's finger.

Once a similar looking stone was on Mini's finger. My Mini's finger. The one I had put there.

Nate's gaze bore into mine, a mixture of concern and frustration evident in his eyes. Amara, usually warm and welcoming, had a furrowed brow that mirrored Nate's emotions. They didn't need to say a word; the unspoken intervention hung in the air like an impending storm.

"Jasper," if it was up to me I would have snapped shut the door right there but I can't and let them both come in.

Nate's voice carried a weight that made me shift uncomfortably. They stepped inside, and the contrast of their presence with the dimness of my living room intensified the shadows that danced on the walls.

"What's going on, Jasper?" Amara's concern cut through the air like a razor. I sighed, running a hand through my disheveled hair, my eyes avoiding the disappointment in their gazes.

"Nothing. Just another typical evening," I mumbled, taking a sip of the whiskey, trying to act nonchalant. The bitterness of the alcohol did little to drown out the tension in the room.

"Typical evenings haven't involved whiskey for breakfast, half-eaten takeout on the coffee table, and the TV stuck on the same news channel since morning," Nate countered, his voice firm.

He walked past me, a silent reproach in his every step. Amara followed, her hand a comforting presence on his arm.

Their concern gnawed at the protective wall I'd built around myself. They hadn't come here to judge, I knew that. They wouldn't. Not Nate, my brother, who'd always looked out for me, even when I didn't deserve it. And not Amara, the woman who brought sunshine into Nate's life and, by extension, mine.

But seeing them in my self-inflicted mess, a stark contrast to their own clean-cut perfection, opened a raw wound within me. It was a wound named Mini, a gaping chasm of grief and regret that no amount of whiskey could numb.

"Fine," I spat, the word like ash in my mouth. "It's not typical. Happy? Now can you leave?"

They didn't. Instead, Amara sat beside me on the couch, her touch gentle on my arm. Nate perched on the armrest, his gaze unwavering. Their silence was louder than any accusation.

"We're here to talk, Jasper," Nate finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "You can't keep drowning yourself in this pain."

Pain. That was the operative word. Every sip of whiskey, every empty takeout container, every flickering image on the television, every visit to the bar - it was all an attempt to drown the pain of losing Mini.

My Mini, the little firecracker who filled my life with laughter and chaos, her bright smile my guiding light.

And then she was gone, ripped away from me in a senseless accident. My light extinguished, leaving behind a gaping hole that echoed with the deafening silence of her absence.