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Guilt Doesn’t Have a Backspace
Last Updated:
2025-06-11 20:12:07
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Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths Bro, You Know How to Shut Up...Right?
The four of us sat down at the corner booth of a warm, dimly lit restaurant—wooden walls, gentle music, clinking cutlery, and exactly the kind of atmosphere that should make a family dinner relaxing.Except, of course, when your brother’s glaring across the table like he’s still lowkey planning your funeral.“Nick,” Ethan said, casually stabbing a breadstick. “Meet him—he’s my best friend, Chris.”Nick nodded politely toward Mr. Wright. “Nice to meet you, sir.”“Likewise.” Mr. Wright gave a small, composed nod back, his tone formal—but his gaze lingered on Nick a bit longer than expected, like he was still trying to place something.“So,” I said, arching a brow, “why the fu—” I coughed, glancing sideways at Mr. Wright. “I mean, why are you here, Ethan?”Ethan snorted, eyes gleaming. “Because of you, you walking catastrophe.”I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I begged you to come.”“When you finally called, I was already halfway here. And I wasn’t going to turn around. I figured I'd do
Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths When Protector Turns Psycho
“ALINA, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”The sound didn’t just echo—it ripped through the air like a grenade in a chapel.I froze.Every cell in my body screamed: RUN.I turned toward the voice and, yep, just as I feared—there he was.Ethan.My older brother. My protector. My freaking executioner. Face contorted in pure betrayal. Hands curled into fists. Rage boiling off him like radioactive steam.But that wasn’t the worst part.No.Because right beside him—arms awkwardly at his sides, expression horrifically neutral, eyes darting like a deer caught in a very inappropriate headlights—stood...Mr. Cristiano Wright.My professor.In his dark slacks and half-buttoned shirt. His perfectly composed face trying to calculate whether he’d walked into an emotional intervention or a domestic warfare documentary.I could see it in his eyes. That exact moment when his soul quietly whispered:“I am a dignified professor. I teach literature. I grade essays. Why the actual f**k am I here?”Then Ethan
Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths Guilt Doesn’t Have a Backspace
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “I’m coming.”“Alina—”I cut the call before he could say another word.As I burst through the dorm gate, breath hitching, heart in my throat, I didn’t have to search.He was right there.Leaning against the old neem tree like a ghost that hadn’t left since yesterday. Disheveled. Drenched in dried sweat and fury. Hair a fucking mess. Dark circles punching shadows into his eyes.I ran to him.Didn’t even think.Threw my arms around him like I could glue all the broken pieces back together just by holding him hard enough.His body locked under mine—then stiffly, angrily, he peeled me off like I was the one who set him on fire.“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice came out low. Dead. Dangerous.“I—I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have ghosted you like that, Nick—”“GHOSTED?” He snapped. “You fucking vanished, Alina! Not a text. Not a call. Not a goddamn pixel of your existence! For an entire fucking day! You think that’s ghosting?!”I fl
Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths Nick Morgan had a matching flair for catastrophic overreactions
Too bad I didn’t know Nick Morgan had a matching flair for catastrophic overreactions.Because the moment I exited Ethan’s chat, my phone straight up glitched like it was about to self-destruct from emotional damage.564 unread messages.Emails. Plural. Like actual Gmail notifications—as if he was submitting a formal missing person report to the United Nations.My thumb hovered over the chat like it might bite me.Was he writing a novel? Filing a lawsuit? Planning a funeral?I hadn’t even opened the damn thread yet, and I could already feel the emotional rollercoaster vibrating through the pixels. Guilt. Rage. Worry. Panic. Regret. Probably a few insults sandwiched between apologies.NICK 🦊[Yesterday, 3:40 PM]Okay… what the fuck, Alina?Why aren’t you picking up? Are you okay??[Yesterday, 4:48 PM]I called. You didn’t answer.So I’m messaging now like a damn lunatic. Because I am a lunatic.Because I’m losing my mind here.[Yesterday, 6:02 PM]Look, if this is about that STUPID fu
Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths My Phone Needs Therapy (And So Do I)
Okay. Whatever.Existential crisis postponed.I’m starving—and right now, eating takes top priority over decoding the emotional rollercoaster that is Cristiano Wright.I sat up with a sigh, dragging the paper box he handed me earlier across the bed like it owed me something. It was still warm—barely—but the smell alone had my stomach growling like it hadn’t been fed since the 1800s.I flipped it open. My eyebrows shot up.Whoa.This wasn’t the sad, greasy cafeteria survival meal the rest of us commoners were forced to endure. This was… teacher food.I’m talking two neatly packed compartments, real vegetables, actual chicken—not the “maybe-it’s-tofu-maybe-it’s-regret” type I usually find swimming in suspicious oil. Even the rice looked seasoned. Seasoned, I tell you.It hit me then—this was his.His lunch.Mr. Wright’s exclusive, staff-only, VIP-level lunch.And he gave it to me.Not because he had to. Not because Ethan probably guilt-tripped him into checking on me. Not because I crie
Silent Flames, Forbidden Paths Static on the Line
“Give the phone to Chris,” Ethan said.I swallowed.I handed the phone to him.I didn’t know what they talked about.Correction—I had no damn clue what they talked about.Mr. Wright and Ethan.For five minutes straight, I sat there, hands in my lap, eyes flitting between the walls of my tiny dorm room like I was trying to find the escape button in real life. I couldn’t hear much. Just low tones. Stiff words. The occasional rise in pitch—like a silent argument through clenched jaws.Then—“You bastard. You always do this.”The words snapped like a whip through the air.I blinked. What?Did he—did Cristiano Wright just… curse?My eyes jerked up from the floor and landed on him.He was staring at the screen of his phone like it had personally betrayed him, his jaw tight, fingers clenching a little too hard around the device. When our eyes met, a flicker of something—maybe regret, maybe embarrassment—flashed across his face.And then… the smile.That cursed, polite, painfully fake teacher
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