Chapter 5

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Chapter 5:Forbidden ways

It’s always in the dark when things come undone.

The night the storm hit, I couldn’t breathe. Not properly. The walls of the house felt like they were pressing inward, suffocating me with silence, with all the things no one said but everyone knew.

I walked barefoot down the corridor, my fingers grazing the wallpaper like I needed to touch something real. The thunder outside cracked so violently it rattled the windows, but that wasn’t what made my chest tighten.

It was the way the house sounded different now. Empty in a way that wasn’t physical—more like it had been hollowed out by secrets. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.

I didn’t plan to go to the library. My body moved before I had a chance to think. That room was supposed to be his sanctuary, not mine. But I think, deep down, I wanted to see if the storm had gotten to him too.

He was there.

Christopher.

Not looking at anything. Just sitting. One hand curled around a half-empty glass of something dark, the other pressed against his forehead like he could rub the thoughts away.

He didn’t flinch when I walked in. Didn’t even turn his head. Just said, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head. I don’t even know if he saw me do it.

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Then stay.”

I sat. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

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“I used to love the rain,” I said after a while, my voice smaller than I meant it to be. “When I was little, my mum and I would sit on the balcony during thunderstorms. She said the sky was telling stories.”

He smiled, barely. “What kind of stories?”

“Ones where nothing was really lost. Just… transformed.”

That was the first time his eyes really met mine.

And for a second, it was quiet in my head.

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There’s something about grief that makes you crave touch.

Not sex. Not always. Just the closeness. The proof that you’re not the only one unraveling. That someone else is real enough to hold you together for a moment.

That’s what it felt like.

When he reached over and brushed his thumb along my knuckles, I didn’t pull away. I let it linger.

We didn’t speak.

There was no plan, no slow build. Just gravity. Skin. Need.

When his mouth found mine, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean or poetic. Our teeth clashed. I think I laughed into his mouth. And then I didn’t.

We stumbled, half-blind, toward the old couch. The storm outside thrashed against the house like it was trying to warn us, but neither of us was listening.

Clothes came off slowly, awkwardly. Like we weren’t used to being bare anymore—not just physically, but emotionally. We were all elbows and breath and silence.

No declarations.

No promises.

Just two people trying to forget everything that had broken them.

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After, I laid there beside him, staring at the ceiling like it could give me answers.

He didn’t say anything. Just ran his fingers up and down my spine like it was a lullaby.

I wanted to ask him what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But I was too scared of the answer.

So I whispered, “Do you think we’ll regret this in the morning?”

He said, “Probably.”

And somehow, I felt better.

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But morning didn’t bring clarity. It brought questions.

Like why the corner of the greenhouse floor was uneven.

I almost didn’t notice it. But when I stepped in to breathe—to get away from the weight of last night—I saw it.

And once you see something, you can’t unsee it.

I knelt down, pushed my hand beneath the warped boards, and found something cold.

A box.

Small, metal, rusted on the edges.

Inside: letters. Photos. A diary with a name that didn’t belong to me but somehow felt like it could have.

Aurelia.

And written in ink that had bled from water damage: “If you're reading this, then I never made it out.”

My heart stopped.

The storm outside had passed.

But inside me, it had just begun.

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