20 Days In His Bedroom

Chapter Sixty one

Absolutely! Here's an expanded, polished, and emotionally layered version of Chapter 61 that blends your best original moments with new scenes and details to push the word count over 1000 while keeping the tone raw and authentic:

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Chapter 61

I take off my heels and run barefooted into the cold night. Tears blur my vision, but I don't stop. I cry—not just because I wasn't there for him, not just because I know he needed me—but because I'm desperate. I wanted him to need me. I wanted him to come to me, hold me tight, tell me I mattered. But he didn't. He left without a word.

Jakob's voice echoes behind me. "Twyla, wait!" But I don't stop. I need to be alone, away from everyone who thinks I'm crazy.

I stop a taxi and climb inside without looking back. The driver is an old man, his white hair shimmering under the dim light.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asks, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

"Nothing," I whisper, voice cracking. "I just feel lost." The sobs catch me, and I can't hold them back.

"Sometimes, we all feel lost. It's okay," he says kindly.

"I loved him so much. And he left." The words fall out before I realize it.

"Oh," he murmurs. "How old are you, sweetheart?"

I ignore the question. "But now I found out his dad died. I should have been there for him." The tears flow freely.

The driver's eyes soften. "Who told you he doesn't love you?"

"He didn't call. He didn't show up." I pull a tissue from my bag, wiping my face.

"Sweetheart, you said his father died, right?" His eyebrows knit together.

I don't answer. Silence stretches between us for the rest of the ride.

When the taxi stops, I slip out and say, "Have a good night," through the window.

I walk to my door, heels dangling from my hands, not caring about my messy, tear-streaked face. Black eyeliner has melted, mixing with the salt on my cheeks.

Then I hear it—"Where were you, Cinderella?"

I freeze.

I look up.

There he is.

Kyle.

Sitting on the doorstep, wearing a tight blue t-shirt and white pants. His hair's messy, a few strands falling onto his forehead. It's obvious he hasn't cut it in a while. Still, he's stunning, the kind of handsome that makes my heart stutter. I catch a whiff of his familiar scent and take a shaky breath.

For a moment, I'm happy to see him. But no—look at me. Ugly, crying, a mess. I don't want him to see this side of me after everything.

"Oh my God! Were you crying?" His voice is soft, almost gentle.

"Did he break your heart?" He takes a step closer, eyes searching mine.

I jerk back, unsure who "he" is. My heels dangle in my hands, and my mind reels. Shit. He's probably thinking I was at a party. The truth—leaving that party early, running from Jakob—is too raw.

He reaches for my heels, taking them from me awkwardly.

"Why did you come?" I stare into his eyes, fighting tears and anger. "Why did you leave?"

"We need to talk. In the car."

"No. I'm not going anywhere with you." I frown.

"Why not?"

"My mom told me never to get into cars with strangers," I roll my eyes.

He chuckles. "I miss the days when you were locked in my room."

"As you said, I was forced. Now I'm free. And here you are, standing in front of my house." I sigh.

"Twyla, I know you're stubborn. But please, can we talk in the car? A lot has happened. You probably don't know. Please don't make things harder for me."

He sounds desperate. I hate how my heart softens.

"Please," he whispers, almost pleading.

"Ten minutes," I say. I need a limit.

He smiles, and I climb into his expensive black car. He closes the door gently behind me.

"Were you at a party?" His eyes flick to my clothes.

"Are you seriously asking that?" I glare.

"No." He nods as if reminding himself.

"Dad died," he says quietly, staring out the window. "It's been hard. I wish I had more time to talk to him, to say sorry for everything. He wasn't perfect, but he was my dad—my only dad. Mom's weak now. I'm trying to handle everything, his business, the pain. I want him to be proud."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Did you date someone?"

"What?"

"I think you heard me."

"And you could have just called me. Instead of hiding behind a fake number." I smirk, teasing.

He looks at me, then ahead, chuckling softly. I'm thrilled—I made him laugh.

"How'd you know?"

"Does it matter?"

"Still, you didn't answer."

"No. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Yeah. But you didn't finish."

"I didn't date anyone."

"Complete it," he insists.

"Complete what?"

"Say it."

"What?"

"Say: 'I won't date anyone but you.'"

He smirks.

"Oh, who do you mean by 'you'?"

"Me, silly."

"No way."

"Really? Okay, I'll count to three." He blinks.

"And if I don't say it?"

"I'll kiss you." He leans closer.

No. Not here. Not in front of my house.

"I love you, bitch." I grin and climb out of the car.

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Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the delay! Life's been crazy.

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