Crimson Secrets

Chapter 2

Stefan

I reached Edward's college on time and Edward was surprisingly late which he is usually not. Then I saw him parking his car and Eleanor was with him and she was looking glorious, I examined her, they were coming in my direction and finally I managed to take my eyes off her and looked at Edward. "How are ya Stefano?" I rolled my eyes and reply "Seriously? I thought you got rid of that little nickname you gave me" Edward punched him lightly in the shoulder and said "Well, obviously not"

Her eyes, once evasive, now held mine—a silent conversation in shades of uncertainty. “Hey,” I ventured, my voice a fragile thread, “how are you, Eleanor?”

Her response was a mere whisper, “I’m fine.” But her discomfort was palpable, like a delicate bird caught in a sudden gust of wind. Why did she avoid my gaze? What secrets lay hidden behind those irises?

Eleanor was different. Her cheeks flushed, a rosy hue betraying emotions she dared not reveal. Was it embarrassment? Or something more profound? I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her.

In a desperate bid to lighten the mood, I suggested a last-day-of-college party. Edward readily agreed, and time slipped through our fingers like sand. Laughter echoed in the corridors, and Eleanor’s smile danced like sunlight on water.

I checked my watch—late, as always. The parking lot beckoned, and there, I collided with Eleanor. “Sorry,” I stammered, “I wasn’t looking.”

“It’s okay, Stefan,” she replied, her voice soft as a breeze. And then, unexpectedly, she asked, “Do you mind if I take a picture of you?”

I grinned, my heart somersaulting. “Sure, why not?” Eleanor wielded her professional DSLR camera, capturing a moment suspended in time. The click of the shutter felt like destiny—a snapshot of longing, friendship, and the fragile threads that bound us all.

And so, Eleanor immortalized me—a mere mortal—against the canvas of memory. In her eyes, I glimpsed a thousand stories waiting to unfold.

"Thank you" she said, satisfied with the picture, she was leaving but I jogged towards her and say "Can I have your number? So you can send me that picture later", "Sure" she said giving her number to me.

“Thank you,” Eleanor murmured, her eyes lingering on the captured moment. The photograph held more than pixels—it held a promise, a bridge between our worlds.

As she turned to leave, I couldn’t let her slip away. My heart raced, fueled by courage and uncertainty. I jogged toward her, breathless yet determined. “Eleanor,” I said, my voice catching, “can I have your number? So you can send me that picture later.”

Her smile was a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “Sure,” she replied, fingers deftly typing her digits into my phone. Each digit was a heartbeat, a connection forged in the quiet corners of our souls.

And so, Eleanor became more than a name—a constellation in my universe, a melody humming beneath my skin. As I pocketed my phone, I wondered if this exchange was destiny’s brushstroke or mere chance.

The last day of college unfolded like a bittersweet symphony—a crescendo of memories and unspoken farewells. Edward’s cryptic message led me to a secluded spot, where the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson.

And there he was—Edward, perched on the hood of his car, a bottle of vodka cradled in his hand. His laughter, tinged with melancholy, echoed through the quietude. “Why did you drink so much?” I asked, my voice a fragile thread.

Edward’s reply slurred, the words stumbling over each other. “Because I can forget about everything,” he confessed, “and especially the pain.” His eyes held shadows—ghosts of battles fought and wounds concealed.

I shot him a look that said, shut your fucking mouth, and confiscated the bottle. Returning to my car, I retrieved a bottle of water. “Here,” I said, offering it to him. Edward chugged it down, parched and desperate.

We drove in silence, the road stretching ahead like an uncertain path. Edward’s father would be furious—his anger a tempest waiting to break. But I couldn’t leave Edward stranded, drowning in his own turmoil.

As we neared my house, Edward stirred. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he whispered, “Dad got drunk yesterday. He hit me. Mom wasn’t home, and I don’t think she’s coming back.” His voice trembled, barely audible.

“What?!” I exclaimed, pulling the car to the side. “But didn’t he stop doing that like ages ago?”

Edward shook his head, disheveled and broken. “I don’t know what happened,” he confessed. “Does Dad still love me, Stef?”

“Of course,” I replied, my heart aching for my friend. “He does love you, Eddie.”

Edward’s laughter bubbled forth—a fragile sound, like glass shattering. “Thanks, Stef,” he said. “For staying in my life and not leaving my side.”

I smiled, the nickname slipping from my lips. “Anyone who would be in my place would do the same,” I assured him. “Besides, you’re worth it, Eddie.”

And so, we continued our journey—a tangle of brokenness and resilience. The road stretched ahead, winding through darkness and uncertainty. But in that moment, as Edward’s tears glistened, I knew—I’d choose this path a thousand times over.

📱 Eleanor: Hey, Edward’s sleeping over at your house, right?

📱 Stefan: Yes, he’s sleeping here. Is something wrong?

📱 Eleanor: He was drunk, wasn’t he? And don’t you dare lie, Stefan… I mean it. 🙄

📱 Stefan: Yes, but he won’t do it again. I’ll make sure of that. Don’t worry. 😌

📱 Eleanor: Fine, if you say so. I believe you. Goodnight.

📱 Stefan: Goodnight, Princess. 😉
                          
                         ~~~~~

Eleanor

The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow through my window. I clutched my phone, its screen illuminating my room like a distant star. Stefan’s message lingered—a sweet ache in my chest.

“Goodnight, princess ;⁠)”

His words danced across my mind, a secret whispered in the quietude. My cheeks flushed, betraying emotions I dared not name. Stefan—the enigma who had tiptoed into my heart, leaving footprints of longing.

“God, this guy does things to me,” I thought, my heartbeat a wild rhythm. His nickname for me—princess—was both a blessing and a curse. It painted my dreams with hues of possibility, yet tethered me to a reality I couldn’t escape.

I vowed to immortalize him—a photograph framed in silver. Stefan, with his laughter like sunlight and eyes that held galaxies. No editing required; he was already perfection—an unspoken poem etched on my soul.

“STEFAN THE GREAT,” I mused, my lips curving into a smile. The title fit him—a hero in my story, a sentinel against the darkness. And as I drifted into slumber, I whispered a promise to the night:

“Ed is dead meat when he comes home.”

For love, like constellations, weaved its patterns across our lives. And in this quiet room, with Stefan’s winky face imprinted on my heart, I surrendered—to dreams, to longing, and to the fragile beauty of beginnings.