𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

είκοσιτέσσερα ; 24

song of the chapter:
TOPANGA ; trippie redd

Margarita left the door slightly ajar, a silent invitation for Rafe to step inside, but she didn't look at him. Instead, she walked across her room with a determined stride, her heart pounding as she approached her wardrobe. Without a word, she opened the drawer where she kept her secrets—the spare vapes, the empty packages, and now, the small bag that had become a symbol of her descent.

Her fingers trembled as she tossed the bag into the drawer, the weight of it hitting the bottom with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the silence of her room. She stood there for a moment, staring down at it, her breath catching in her throat. A part of her knew she was hiding it from herself as much as from Rafe. Locking it away didn't change the reality, but it gave her a fleeting sense of control, however fragile it was.

She slammed the drawer shut, her hand gripping the key as she turned the lock. The metallic click felt final, but it didn't bring the relief she was hoping for. She leaned against the wardrobe, her eyes closed, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She could hear Rafe's quiet footsteps as he entered the room, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.

"Margarita," he said, his voice low, hesitant. She didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge him. She felt him lingering near the door, his presence a tangible reminder of everything she was trying to ignore.

"You don't have to hide it from me," he continued, his tone gentle, almost pleading. "I'm not here to judge you."

She let out a shaky breath, her forehead pressed against the cool wood of the wardrobe. "I'm not hiding," she lied, the words bitter on her tongue. She could feel his eyes on her, searching for a crack in her armor, but she refused to turn around, to let him see the turmoil that was tearing her apart from the inside.

"Then what are you doing?" he asked softly, taking a cautious step closer. His concern was palpable, wrapping around her like a blanket she didn't want but desperately needed.

"I'm fine, Rafe," she insisted, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. "It's just... a rough patch."

She heard him sigh, the frustration evident in his voice. "This isn't you," he murmured, and she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to hold herself together. "You don't know who I am," she whispered, the defiance wavering in her voice. "You don't know anything."

"I know you're hurting," he said softly, and the gentleness in his voice nearly broke her. "And I know you're scared. But this—" he gestured toward the locked drawer, "—this isn't the answer."

She turned around slowly, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, they just stood there, the silence between them thick with unspoken pain and confusion. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be in a long time. But she was also angry, a simmering rage at him for seeing through her defenses, for caring when she didn't want anyone to care.

"What do you want from me, Rafe?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You can't just show up and expect to fix everything."

"I don't want to fix you," he said, taking another step closer. "I just want to help you."

She shook her head, the tears she had been holding back threatening to spill over. "I don't need your help," she choked out, her voice breaking. "I don't need anyone."

He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her arm, but he didn't touch her. "Maybe you don't," he said quietly. "But I'm here anyway."

She stared at him, her vision blurred by unshed tears. She wanted to scream at him to leave, to stop making her feel things she didn't want to feel. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she turned away from him, wiping at her eyes angrily.