"You said you love me? Then beg for it. Beg for my love. Show me-prove it again and again until I say yes."
Beatrix is a girl of few words, someone who keeps her emotions locked away, unwilling to let anyone close. After experiencing deep trust issu...
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Ethan :
I linger in the hallway, my fingers tightening around the hem of my sleeve as I watch Beatrix disappear into the restroom. A part of me debates leaving before she returns—I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. But another part refuses to walk away. The tension between us is suffocating, too heavy to ignore.
The seconds stretch unbearably, my heart hammering in my chest as I keep my gaze locked on the empty corridor ahead. Then, finally, Beatrix emerges.
She sees me.
For a fleeting moment, her eyes flicker—hesitation, recognition—but then she keeps walking, her steps unhurried, her expression unreadable.
I part my lips, her name resting on the edge of my tongue, but before I can speak, she stops.
Right in front of me.
"Ethan," she says, her voice soft but firm, her gaze locking with mine.
I freeze, caught off guard by the way she says my name. There's something in the way she says it, something heavy and unspoken, that makes my heart beat a little faster. For a moment, I can't bring myself to speak. It's like every time she calls me, I know something is coming, something I'm not quite ready to face.
She takes a step closer, her expression shifting. There's pain there, but also something else—maybe fear? Her voice trembles slightly when she continues, "Martha likes you." Her words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable.
I stare at her, unsure how to react. My chest tightens, and before I can think of a response, she asks, "Why did you ignore her feelings?"
I pause for a moment, "I didn't ignore her feelings," I say slowly, meeting her gaze. "I just made it clear to her that I don't feel the same way she does. If I didn't, don't you think she'd hold onto the hope that something could happen between us? I couldn't let that happen."
"Do you talk to her after that day?" she asks, her voice soft, almost cautious.
I hesitate for a moment before answering. "No," I say simply, the word feeling heavy as it leaves my mouth.
"Why?" she presses, her voice lower now, as if she's not sure how to ask, "I'm not telling you to give her some false hope, but still... you can make her less hurt. You should talk to her as a friend. Maybe it'll make her feel a little better," she adds, her gaze steady. I stare at her face, searching for the right words to say, but all I can think about is how she never opens up for herself—never speaks about her own feelings, her own hurt. Yet now, here she is, speaking to me for Martha's sake.
How can she think of others when she's clearly hurting too?
We stood in the hallway, people moving past us in a blur, but I couldn't bring myself to speak. My mind is racing, questions and doubts swirling within me. I need answers, and I need them now. There are too many things I have to clarify, too many things I need to understand about her.
