Kenan Yildiz - You Don't Always Get A Second Chance

Chp. 19

As boring as it may sound, I spent the entire day binge-watching Korean dramas. That's how I prefer it, anyway—staying home, wrapped in the comfort of my own space, rather than dressing up and going out. To me, that's the definition of a perfect night. Sure, it would've been nice to have someone to share it with, but I've gotten used to being on my own.

At least there's one thing to look forward to: the Euro Cup final. Avery and I will watch it together. But it's going to be tough. We're up against Spain—a strong team, a formidable challenge. But none of that matters. There's only one goal: winning.

I order some take out and wait patiently for it. Now that I think about it it's been a while since I've cocked something myself. I can't be bothered...

Guess they're not too busy tonight. The sun is dipping lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as the clock hits 22:00 (10 p.m.). It's peaceful outside, the kind of quiet that makes you wish for something more. I've always dreamed of living in Spain, somewhere near the beach, where I could fall asleep to the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the stillness of the night. But, well, that's just a dream.

Right now, I'm watching 'Mr. Plankton', and it's surprisingly good. It's about two exes navigating—

The doorbell rings, cutting off my thoughts. That must be my food. I glance at the clock on the wall. Only ten minutes have passed since I placed the order on my phone.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I make my way to the door, their familiar sound echoing in the quiet of my apartment. I smooth the edges of my pajamas and plaster a polite smile on my face, ready to exchange a quick "thank you" with the delivery guy before retreating back inside.

But as I swing the door open, my fake smile falters.

It's not some random courier standing there.

It's Kenan.

He's hunched over, his body listing like a ship in rough waters. His hands grasp the doorframe for support, knuckles pale against the wood. His legs tremble beneath him, barely holding him upright.

My breath catches. For a moment, I think he might be drunk. But there's something deeper—something darker—etched into his pale, sweat-slick face.

"Kenan?" I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. What is he doing here. Especially looking like this? Is he okay?

His bloodshot eyes meet mine, and he sways forward, a grimace twisting his lips.

"Hi, Bell..." he rasps, his voice raw and ragged, his knees buckling. I quickly go to hold him upright helping him inside.

"Hi, Kenan..." I say softly, the words barely leaving my lips as the faint smell of alcohol hits my nose. He's drunk—there's no doubt about it. I slip an arm under his and guide him to the couch. He stumbles but eventually collapses onto my gray couch with a heavy thud.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice laced with confusion, though I can't hide the tinge of worry beneath it. How much did he drink exactly?

I kneel in front of him, trying to meet his gaze. His head tilts forward, his disheveled hair falling into his face, hiding his smile. My hands instinctively rest on his knees, as if grounding him will somehow stabilize this strange moment.

I've never seen him like this before—so vulnerable.

"I missed you, Bella," he says, the words slow and labored, as if forcing them out physically hurts him.

And hearing them hurts me just as much. They can't be real. They can't be true.

I shake my head, a quiet denial that feels safer than words. My hands drop away as I rise, putting space between us.