𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 ─────⋆⋅★𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩é𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘵

𝟎𝟖 | 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞, 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬

Days had passed since Timothée's message had appeared on my phone, days since the kiss that lingered and the moment he pulled away. 

The message had been a ghost in my mind, a reminder of unresolved emotions and the fractured connection between us. My apartment was a quiet refuge from the turmoil, its stillness a stark contrast to the chaos that had unsettled me.

I sat in the dim light of my living room, the remnants of my childhood and the echoes of past traumas hanging heavy in the air. 

The room was a tapestry of memories—old books, scattered photographs, and a half-empty coffee mug. 

I picked up a picture of my younger self, the image of a girl with a smile and eyes that had already been tempered by heartbreak. It reminded me of a time when I sought approval and love that never fully came.

I glanced at Timothée's message, still glaring from my phone screen. 

In a bid to quiet my racing mind, I took a deep breath and deleted the message. The action felt both final and freeing, a small yet significant step towards reclaiming my own peace.

Determined to find clarity, I decided to head to the library. 

The university library, a sanctuary of silence, was steeped in the scent of aged parchment and varnished wood. As evening fell, the last light of day filtered through tall windows, casting long, ethereal shadows across rows of ancient tomes and polished tables. 

The atmosphere was one of solemnity, perfect for solitary contemplation.

In my usual corner, Lorenzo and I occupied a long wooden table, an island in a sea of scholarly rigor. We exchanged notes with ritualistic efficiency, the half-empty coffee cups between us growing cold as time passed.

I was deep into explaining a particularly convoluted theory when a palpable shift in the atmosphere disrupted the silence. The library's ambient noise seemed to vanish, replaced by an oppressive stillness. 

My gaze rose, and there he was.

Timothée.

Entering the library with a disheveled urgency.

His shirt was crumpled. 

His usually impeccable hair was a disarray of unrestrained frustration. 

His eyes, intense and penetrating, scanned the room with an almost frantic energy.

"Caught you on a little date again, I see," Timothée's voice sliced through the quiet with an edge that was both casual and charged with an undercurrent of jealousy. 

His eyes, dark and fathomless, were fixed on me with an almost predatory intensity.

I looked up, a flicker of surprise and a barely concealed annoyance mingling in my expression.

"What are you doing here, Timothée?" I asked, attempting to mask the unwelcome jolt his presence had given me.

Timothée's gaze, momentarily drifting to Lorenzo, was laden with barely restrained irritation before returning to me. "Thought I'd drop by. Couldn't stay away after our last... conversation."

The implication of his words hung in the air, thick with the residue of our previous encounter—the kiss that had left so many things suspended, unresolved. 

"And yet, you managed to stay away right after," I retorted, bitterness creeping into my tone as a quiet rebellion against the haunting memories of our last meeting.