Twisted Fates

The past between us

Noah's POV

The party was supposed to be a distraction. That's all it ever is. The lights, the music, the noise—it all drowns out the quiet, the space where thoughts creep in.

But even surrounded by people, I still saw her. Sofia. Dancing on the table, laughing like the world hadn't knocked her down a hundred times before.

For a second, it was like nothing had changed. She looked just like she did back in New York, wild and carefree. The same Sofia I couldn't take my eyes off of. The same Sofia I destroyed.

I didn't think—just pushed my way through the crowd until I was standing beneath her. She swayed, her balance clearly off, and I grabbed her arm to steady her.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, louder than I meant to.

She blinked down at me, her eyes glassy. "Let go of me," she slurred, trying to pull away.

"You're making a fool of yourself," I said, my voice tight. I wasn't sure if I was more mad at her or myself for caring.

Her laugh was bitter, sharp. "Why do you care?" she shot back, her words tumbling out in a messy rush. "You didn't care in New York."

And there it was. The thing neither of us wanted to say out loud.

Her voice cracked as she kept going, the words like a punch to my chest. "You ruined everything."

I didn't respond. What could I say? That I thought I was protecting her? That I thought it was for the best?

I didn't deserve to explain myself, not after what I'd done.

She shoved me, her movements weak and uncoordinated. I caught her wrists, holding them gently as she fell apart in front of me.

And it killed me.

I wanted to tell her the truth, that I never stopped caring. That every word I said to her in New York had been a lie—one I thought would save her from me.

But then she turned pale, her body jerking as she stumbled back.

"Oh, no," she mumbled, and I barely had time to grab the nearest trash can before she got sick.

"Come on," I said, my voice softer now.

I pulled out my phone, calling for a ride. There was no way I was letting her walk home like this.

"No," she said, shaking her head weakly. "I'm not taking your stupid rich-boy ride."

Her defiance would've been funny if she didn't look like she was about to collapse. "You don't have a choice," I told her, keeping my voice steady.

She tried to argue, but her words slurred into nothing. I guided her to the limo, helping her inside and sitting beside her as the driver pulled away.

She leaned against me, her breaths shallow and uneven, and for a moment, I let myself pretend things were different. That we weren't broken. That I hadn't shattered everything between us.

When we got to her apartment, I carried her inside, laying her on the couch and grabbing a blanket to cover her. She mumbled something under her breath, her voice too soft to make out, and I sat there for a while, watching her sleep.

I shouldn't have stayed. But I couldn't bring myself to leave, not until I was sure she was okay.

As I walked back to my own apartment later that night, my mind drifted to New York.

It wasn't supposed to end the way it did.

I thought I was doing the right thing. Sofia had always been full of light, full of hope. But being with me? That would've dimmed her, tied her down to a life she didn't deserve.

My dad always told me that relationships were a distraction, that they'd ruin my focus and my future. And for once, I listened to him.

The plan was simple: push her away before I could ruin her.

So I told her she wasn't enough. That I didn't feel the same way she did. That everything between us had been a mistake.

The look on her face still haunts me.

I thought it would be better for her to hate me than to let me drag her down. I convinced myself I was doing it for her, that I was protecting her.

But maybe that was a lie, too.

Because now, as I sit here in a life I never wanted, all I can think about is how much I miss her.

And how much I wish I hadn't let her go.