The hate between us

Chapter 9: Ella's Point of View

The night felt heavy, like the weight of the day had seeped into the darkness, wrapping itself around me as I lay in bed. Sleep wasn't coming easily, despite my exhaustion. I tossed and turned, flashes of the funeral, the maze, Caleb's words, and the tension between us running through my mind.

At some point, I must've drifted off, but it wasn't restful. I woke up hours later, my chest tight, my face wet with tears I hadn't even realized I was shedding. My pillow was damp, and my breath hitched in my throat as I wiped my eyes, trying to calm myself down. It had been a long time since I cried like that—so suddenly, so uncontrollably.

It was too much. The day, the memories, everything Caleb stirred up in me—it was like all the emotions I'd been suppressing for years were finally breaking through.

I got out of bed, still feeling shaky, and threw on a pair of pajamas. I didn't even think about what I was wearing. It wasn't until I was already halfway downstairs that I realized how revealing the thin tank top and shorts were. Too late now. I just needed something to calm my nerves, something to steady me.

Water. Or maybe milk. I had no idea why, but warm milk always made me feel better when I couldn't sleep.

The kitchen was dimly lit, and I moved quietly, grabbing a glass and pouring some milk before putting it into the microwave. The hum of the microwave filled the silence, and for a moment, I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

But then I felt it—that familiar prickle on the back of my neck. I opened my eyes and turned toward the table.

There he was. Caleb.

Sitting there like a ghost in the middle of the night, a glass of bourbon in hand. His eyes were on me, steady and dark, watching me from across the room. How long had he been there? How had I not noticed?

I stiffened, trying to ignore the way my heart kicked up at the sight of him, sitting there all calm and brooding. The same guy who had been pushing my buttons all night, who had held me one moment and driven me crazy the next. The same guy who had walked away earlier, leaving me more confused than I had ever been.

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling exposed in my pajamas. "Are you that addicted to drinking that you wake up in the middle of the night just to pour yourself a glass?"

He didn't answer right away, just swirled the bourbon in his glass and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, without a word, he stood up and walked toward me. My breath caught in my throat as he approached, the kitchen suddenly feeling much smaller.

I wanted to back away, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor, even as he came to a stop in front of me. His hand reached out, and before I could process what was happening, he gently wiped away a tear I hadn't realized was still clinging to my cheek. The touch was unexpected, soft, and I hated how much it affected me.

"You really ought to do a better job hiding that," he said, his voice low and teasing, but there was something behind it. "People might start thinking you've got feelings."

I swatted his hand away, heat rising in my cheeks—whether from embarrassment or anger, I couldn't tell. "And you might want to stop playing the role of a drunk philosopher," I shot back, my voice sharp. "You're not as deep as you think."

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly as he took another sip of his bourbon. "I'm not the one crying in the middle of the night over things I can't control," he said, his voice a little softer now, like he was pointing out something obvious.

I glared at him, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I'm not crying."

He didn't argue. He just stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his presence too close, too overwhelming. The tension between us was thick, suffocating, but there was something different about it now—less about hate and more about something raw, something real that neither of us wanted to face.

"You should go back to bed," he finally said, his voice quieter, the bite gone from his tone. "Get some sleep. Whatever's haunting you, it'll still be there tomorrow."

I frowned, about to say something sarcastic, but the words died on my lips. He was right. Whatever was stirring inside me wasn't going to disappear, no matter how many tears I wiped away or how many walls I put up between us.

The microwave beeped, breaking the silence. I turned my back to him, reaching for the warm glass of milk. My hands were still trembling slightly, and I hated that he had seen me like this—so vulnerable, so exposed. I lifted the glass to my lips, drinking slowly, my back pressed against the counter.

When I turned back around, Caleb was watching me again, leaning against the table now, his eyes half-lidded, his glass of bourbon dangling loosely from his fingers. There was something in his gaze that unnerved me, like he was seeing me for the first time, really seeing me. And it wasn't the Ella he'd been at war with for years.

"What's keeping you up?" he asked, breaking the silence, his voice rough but not unkind.

I didn't know how to answer him. Not truthfully, anyway. Because how could I explain the whirlwind of emotions he stirred in me—the confusion, the anger, the strange pull I felt every time I was near him?

Instead, I shrugged, looking away. "Nightmares."

He didn't press, just nodded slightly, as if he understood more than I wanted him to.

The silence stretched between us again, but it wasn't awkward this time. It was heavy, filled with things left unsaid, with emotions neither of us knew how to handle.

Eventually, he pushed himself off the table and walked toward me again, but this time there was no teasing in his step. He reached out and, with a gentleness I didn't expect from him, brushed his thumb across the spot where another tear had escaped. His touch lingered for a second longer than it should have.

"Get some rest, Ella," he said, his voice softer now, almost tender.

And then, before I could respond, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the warmth of the milk in my hands and the cold realization that, for the first time, I wasn't sure if I hated him at all.