Kismet | ENGLOT

Chapter 41

Charlotte's POV:

The door clicked shut, and I couldn't move. My body felt frozen, rooted to the spot as if leaving this couch would mean accepting the reality I wasn't ready to face. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of my own shallow, uneven breaths. My lips still tingled, the kiss lingering on my skin like a brand, a memory etched so deeply into my soul that I knew I'd carry it forever.

I lifted trembling fingers to my lips, as if touching them might keep the warmth alive, but it was already fading. For six years, I had dreamed of this moment—aching for it, longing for it with every fibre of my being. I had imagined a thousand ways it could happen, pictured what it would feel like to hold her again, to taste the love we had shared. But nothing could have prepared me for this.

It wasn't the reunion I had dreamed of. It wasn't a beginning.

It was an ending.

I sank onto the couch, my legs giving way as the weight of what had just happened crashed over me. My chest felt hollow, like a gaping wound I couldn't close. Her words replayed in my mind, sharp and unrelenting, each one a knife twisting deeper. "I'm letting you go."

This was what I wanted. This was what I had told myself was for the best. I had pushed her away, convinced myself that letting her move on was the only way to protect her, to let her have the life she deserved. But now, those words—the finality of them—were suffocating.

A sob clawed its way out of my throat, raw and painful, tearing through the silence of the apartment. My hand pressed against my chest, as if I could physically hold myself together, but it was useless. The ache was too deep, too consuming. I could still see her in my mind's eye—standing there, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking as she said she loved me, as she walked away.

She had left, but it felt like she had taken a part of me with her. A part I didn't know how to live without. I curled forward, my elbows resting on my knees, my hands covering my face as the sobs wracked my body. I couldn't remember the last time I cried like this—so completely, so helplessly. It was as if the dam I had built around my emotions had finally shattered, and everything I had been holding back for years came flooding out.

"Engfa..." I whispered her name, the sound of it cracking in the empty room. It was a plea, a confession, a name that held all the love and regret I could never fully express. My shoulders shook violently as the tears poured down, and I clutched at the fabric of my shirt, desperate for something—anything—to anchor me.

I had told myself for years that I was doing the right thing. That walking away from her was the only way to give her a chance to heal, to move forward. But now, as her words echoed in my mind, I realised how wrong I had been. She hadn't moved on. Not really. And neither had I.

The kiss had been everything. It was desperate and raw, filled with six years of love, heartbreak, and longing. For a moment, it had felt like nothing else mattered, like the world had fallen away and left only us. But then it ended, and her words brought it all crashing back.

"I'm letting you go."

The finality of it tore through me, each word a fresh wound. I thought I wanted this—I thought I wanted her to move on, to find happiness. But now, all I could feel was the overwhelming regret of pushing her away, of letting her believe it was what I truly wanted when she had always been my everything.

I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling as my tears continued to fall. "I thought I was doing the right thing," I murmured to the emptiness, my voice breaking. "I thought... I was protecting you."

But had I? Had I really protected her, or had I only protected myself from the fear of losing her? From the pain of seeing her suffer because of me?

My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath, my sobs quieting into soft, shuddering gasps. The apartment felt impossibly empty, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. I wiped at my face with trembling hands, my fingers lingering on my tear-streaked skin. The ache in my chest didn't lessen. If anything, it deepened, the loss of her—again—feeling like a blow I wasn't sure I could recover from.