Chapter 8 - The Night Before

" Eva Monroe's Point Of View''

I didn't sleep. Not really. I shut my eyes, but my thoughts just wouldn’t quiet down. Ever since that night on the balcony.

Cassian hasn’t said a single word. I can still remember the way he looked me in the eye and told me how his father used to bury bodies where the roses grew the thickest.

He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t flinched. “Just said it like a man reading a will no one asked to hear.”

And now we are here.

The silence in the penthouse was so thick, it felt like it could wrap around me. I moved through it like I was wading through fog, each step dragging me down a little more. Every creak of the floorboards seemed to bounce around in my head, amplifying the stillness.

Cassian was still slumped in the same armchair he’d collapsed into hours earlier. The blinds were drawn. No TV, no drink in hand. Just stillness. It felt like he was stuck in time, while I was the only one still alive and breathing.

I stood by the kitchen island, keeping my distance as I watched him. My tea had gone cold in my hand. I hadn’t taken a single sip.

"You haven’t eaten," I said.

His gaze didn’t shift. Just a flick of his eyes toward me, then away again. Like looking was too much effort. Like words would cost more than he had.

“I’ll order something,” I added, already reaching for my phone.

"Don’t."

The word came sharp and low. My thumb froze mid-screen.

"Alright," I replied gently.

I didn’t push.

This wasn’t about food. Or tea. Or even the silence.

He was waiting.

But for what—permission? Courage? A reason?

That’s when the phone rang.

Not mine. His phone.

Cassian flinched.

It lit up the room like a gunshot, vibrating on the glass table between us.

Unknown Caller.

He didn’t reach for it.

Three rings.

Four.

Five—

He answered on the sixth.

He didn’t say hello.

He just listened.

His jaw tightened, and I could see the muscle twitching as if it had a life of its own.

Then a short, quiet reply. "Tomorrow morning."

And he hung up.

Just like that.

I knew better than to ask who it was. But I didn’t have to.

“The doctor?” I asked.

He nodded once.

I let the silence linger for a moment, then another. When I finally spoke, my voice came out softer than I intended. “So, you’re really going to do it?”

His eyes met mine finally.

"I don’t want to die, Eva.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration. His voice held no hint of urgency, and there was absolutely no emotion to be found. No emotion at all.

Just a fact.

He stood and walked past me like he hadn’t dropped a live wire between us.

I turned to follow him with my eyes. "Cassian—"

He paused in the hallway. Didn’t look back.

He simply stated, "I don’t want to be like him," and then he vanished down the hall.

I stayed in the kitchen.

My tea was ice-cold.

---

That night, the house didn’t sleep. And neither did we.

I heard him moving around his room. Drawers opening and closing. A zipper. Footsteps pacing.

At some point I found myself outside his door. I didn’t knock.

I just stood there, listening.

And I thought, if he dies, I won’t forget the sound of that night.

The hush between us. The weight of things unspoken. “The storm was building in the silence—where everything fragile goes to break.”

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t hate him. And I couldn’t walk away.

What did that make me?

I didn’t know.

All I knew was this: tomorrow, everything would change.

And I was still here.