bapa: from here to eternity

chapter 20: the dress

Chapa POV:

I woke up to the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. As I opened my eyes, it took me a moment to realize where I was. This wasn't my bed. The sheets were too soft, the scent too unfamiliar—woodsy, with a hint of something fresh, maybe citrus. Then it hit me. I was in Bose's bedroom. The events of last night came rushing back, and I felt my stomach twist with a mix of emotions.

My eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand—6 a.m. I had spent the night here. But more than that, I had told him I had feelings for him. I groaned inwardly, mentally kicking myself. "How stupid can you be, Chapa?" I muttered under my breath. Why did I confess so soon? Why did I let myself be so vulnerable with him? I felt exposed, as if I had handed him the power to hurt me without even thinking twice. Last night I probably drank more alcohol than usual. I wasn't drunk, just a bit tipsy.

I glanced around the room, realizing how comfortable I had been, even in my restless state of mind. Bose's bed was incredible—soft, yet firm in all the right places, like it was designed to cradle you to sleep. But as much as I had enjoyed the night's rest, I needed to get out of here, away from the constant reminder of my impulsiveness.

There was no sign of Bose in the bedroom, which was a small relief. I quietly reached for my bag on the nightstand, trying not to make any noise. The last thing I wanted was to have another awkward conversation with him. Slipping out of the bed, I padded softly to the door, opening it just enough to peek into the living room.

Bose was there, sprawled out on the couch. He looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his face softened by sleep. He had given up his bed for me and taken the couch—of course he had. That was so like him. The thought made my heart squeeze a little.

I tiptoed past him, careful not to wake him, and slipped out the front door. The cool morning air hit my face as I walked to the bus stop. I needed the fresh air, something to clear my head from the whirlwind of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm me.

Back at my apartment, I couldn't stop thinking about last night. Despite the self-recrimination, there was a small, stubborn part of me that didn't regret it. His lips had been so soft against mine, and he smelled so good—like a mix of fresh rain and something warm and comforting, maybe sandalwood. And that wet hair of his, dark and slicked back, made him look different. But it wasn't just about how he looked or smelled. There was something in the way he kissed me—slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second. He was a better kisser than I ever imagined, and I hadn't been able to stop myself from sinking into the feeling of being wanted, even if just for that moment.

Realizing how my thoughts were spiraling, I shook my head. "Stop it, Chapa," I told myself firmly. I couldn't afford to let myself get carried away. Not now, not when there was so much at stake.

I decided a shower would help clear my mind. The hot water did wonders, washing away the remnants of last night's confusion. Afterward, I dressed in a black leather jacket over a red with purple top, paired with black baggy jeans and white sneakers. I styled my hair, letting it fall just right, and finished with a spray of deodorant and a touch of my favorite perfume. I needed to feel like myself again, in control and confident.

I caught the bus to the academy, arriving just in time for class. Ms. Ambrose was already talking about the art exhibition, which was happening tomorrow. "Wear something nice and neat," she advised us. "It'll help you sell your art."

I was only half-listening until she mentioned George Davis. The name sent a ripple of excitement through the room. Davis was one of the richest men in our state, a billionaire with a deep passion for art. If he bought one of our pieces, it could be the break of a lifetime. Recognition, success—it would all follow.