Till Sunrise┊Luke Castellan

8 .·:· The Whispers in Her Tears

Selva, Miguel Carbonel. 'Death at sunset for Sappho'. 1880 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Words: 1,581

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Language warning

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seven days before the summer solstice

Phoebe rushed back to the Apollo cabin, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The weight of others' observations lingered in her mind like an unshakable shadow. She always brushed it off, thinking they were nothing more than innocent banter, just an attempt to tease her. But now Clarrise...

Clarrise wouldn't make fun of her for something that wasn't true. It just wasn't in her nature.

Phoebe's head began to spin. If Clarrise suspected something, how many others shared the same thoughts?

Did Luke?

The questions clawed at her, their persistent grip tightening as a lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard, attempting to push down the rising unease that threatened to overwhelm her.

But nothing is going on, she swore to herself. if anything was there, which it wasn't, it was a silly childhood crush she had moved passed years ago. Yet, if everyone thought there was an underlying situation between them, someone would have told him. Gossip, after all, spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. And it seemed it might just consume her as well.

Suddenly, Phoebe halted in her tracks, realisation striking her like a blow.

"Oh," Phoebe whispered barely audible, her eyes started to sting as the pieces fell into place. That's why he's been so weird all summer. His subtle shifts in behaviour, the guarded secrets, the disappearances - they all took on new meaning. Panic tightened its grip as she considered the possibility, a fear creeping in - Luke knew and didn't reciprocate.

She didn't even really like him like that. She definitely didn't. He's got it all wrong. All of them have gotten it all wrong. But there was no way she could clear this up without making more suspicion. She was caught between a rock and a hard place. Phoebe gritted her teeth, attempting to stave off the rising tide of despair as her eyes began to sting.

She pressed on, muttering a quiet reassurance, "You will not cry. Wait until you're home, okay? No crying," as she lightly slapped her cheeks during the hurried walk to her father's cabin.

A small voice whispered from the depths of her chest, 'What if you loved him?' Furious, she shook her head.

She didn't like him because she couldn't. She would not be selfish. She wouldn't ask any more of him. The idea of jeopardising their friendship, the bond they had, was unthinkable.

I'm not in love with him she thought hurriedly, yet, the persistent doubts gnawed at the edges of her certainty.

Phoebe shook her head, a futile attempt to dispel the thoughts she desperately wanted to avoid. Stumbling up the steps of the cabin she crashed through the doorway of her bedroom. Tossing her beach belongings on the ground she collapsed onto her bed, the scream building within her muffled by a pillow. As she steadied her breath, she stared hard at the wall, frustration etched across her features.

Turning abruptly, she rushed up to her mirror, locking eyes with her reflection. Wanting to witness her own despair.

Judgement and fury overflowing from her gaze. She roughly wiped away the tears that streamed down her face, raising a finger to point accusingly at herself.