I Didn’t Know Where Else To Go

CHAPTER THREE – I Didn’t Know Where Else To Go

Alina’s POV

The rain started slowly.

Just a few drops.

Then more.

And more.

Until the whole sky opened and poured down like it was trying to wash the whole world clean.

But it didn’t wash me clean.

I was still dirty with pain.

Still heavy with shame.

I walked and walked, not knowing where I was going.

I didn’t take a phone. I didn’t take a bag.

Just the same clothes I wore when I left the house.

When I left him.

My hair was wet and sticking to my face. My slippers were soaked and making that annoying slap sound on the road. I didn’t care.

I kept walking.

Each step hurt. Not because my legs were tired… but because I was empty inside.

I didn’t know what I was walking towards.

I just knew I was done walking back.

****

People passed by in their cars. Some stared.

But no one stopped.

Why would they?

I was just a sad-looking woman in the rain.

Wives don’t run from rich husbands.

Not in their world.

They’d rather ask, “What did she do wrong?”

Not “What did he do to her?”

I found an empty bench by the side of the road. It was under a tree, but the rain still came through the leaves.

I sat down.

Soaking wet. Shivering.

I folded my arms around my body, trying to keep warm.

But no hug could protect me from what I was feeling.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t wipe them.

I had nothing left to wipe them with anyway.

“This is what freedom feels like?” I asked myself quietly.

It didn’t feel good.

It didn’t feel strong.

It didn’t feel like winning.

It felt lonely.

Cold.

Hopeless.

I wanted to go back home—but I didn’t want to go back to him.

And in my world, he was home.

So where did that leave me?

Nowhere.

I sat there like that for maybe twenty minutes.

I was trying to hold myself together.

I was failing.

I didn’t even notice the man standing nearby until he spoke.

“Excuse me…”

I jumped a little and looked up.

He was tall, wearing a black coat, holding a black umbrella.

Raindrops slid off the edge of it.

He wasn’t close, just a few steps away.

He looked at me carefully, as if… he was thinking hard about something.

“You look like someone I know,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t care who he thought I was.

But he kept standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m fine,” I said softly, turning my head away.

“No… you’re not.”

That made me go still.

His voice wasn’t rude. It wasn’t forceful.

Just… honest.

Real.

“You’re crying,” he added.

I laughed bitterly. “The rain is hiding it well, isn’t it?”

He didn’t laugh.

He moved a little closer, slowly, like he didn’t want to make me run.

Then he tilted his umbrella gently so it covered me too.

“I can go,” he said. “But I saw you sitting here when I drove past. I turned back because… I don’t know. Something about you.”

I looked up at him.

His eyes were kind.

But more than that, they looked… confused.

Like he was trying to remember something.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Or someone who looked like you. Long ago.”

I didn’t answer

I didn’t care who he thought I looked like.

I didn’t care who he was.

I didn’t even care who I was anymore.

But I stayed sitting.

Because the umbrella was warm.

Because his voice wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t asking.

It wasn’t judging.

It was… just there.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added. “I’ll leave you alone if you want me to. But… not like this. Not in the rain.”

He paused. I could hear him breathe out.

“There’s a café down the road. I can drop you off. Or you can wait there. Just somewhere warm. Somewhere dry.”

I blinked slowly. My vision was blurry. From the rain. From the tears. From not sleeping. From everything.

“Why?” I finally whispered. “Why do you care?”

He hesitated.

And then he said something that made me look up at him again.

“Because sometimes,” he said, “you find someone who reminds you of everything you lost… and you don’t want to lose again.”

I stared at him.

He wasn’t smiling. His jaw was tight. His eyes were tired too.

But he meant it.

And somehow, that made me stand.

I didn’t even know why.

I should’ve been afraid.

But I wasn’t.

He didn’t ask for my name.

He didn’t touch me.

He just led the way.

And I followed.

His car was a black Mercedes. Clean. Quiet.

It smelled like leather and mint.

I sat beside him. Soaking wet. Dripping water into the soft seats.

“I’m sorry,” I said suddenly, when I noticed the mess I was making.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

I looked out the window.

We drove in silence for a while.

But the silence didn’t feel awkward.

It felt… peaceful.

Like a break from the storm.

Not just outside.

But inside me too.

“I can book you a hotel,” he said softly after a while. “It’s close. Clean. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain. Just rest.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no either.

So he kept driving.

And I let him.

The hotel was small and calm. The kind of place people go when they don’t want to be seen.

He parked. Got out. Walked to the reception and handled everything quickly.

When he returned, he opened the door on my side.

“Room 204,” he said. “I’ll walk you there.”

I nodded.

Not because I trusted him.

But because I didn’t trust myself to stand alone.

We entered the room. It smelled of fresh sheets and something soft—lavender maybe.

There was only one bed, but he didn’t look at it.

He just stepped in, placed the umbrella by the door, and turned toward me.

He stood there, hands in his coat pockets, eyes unreadable.

“There’s water in the fridge. And a robe in the closet. Take your time.”

I watched him turn, as if he was about to leave—but something stopped him.

Maybe it was the way I was shaking.

Maybe it was the silence between us that felt too loud.

Or maybe it was the look in my eyes, the one I couldn’t hide anymore.

“Do you… want me to stay?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

I didn’t answer with words.

I just nodded. Once.

It was stupid.

It was reckless.

But it was honest.

He slowly closed the door behind him. The soft click echoed louder than it should’ve.

I went to the bathroom, removed my wet clothes, and let the water pour over me until my fingers wrinkled into folds and my head stopped spinning.

By the time I came out, I was in the robe. Barefoot. Hair wetted.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his coat off, shirt open at the top.

Not looking at me.

Not watching.

Just waiting.

I halted in the doorway.

He rotated his head by a fraction, his eyes locking with mine—still unreadable, still cold, but not cruel.

I approached him.

Each step a choice.

A choice to forget.

A choice to feel.

A choice to be touched and not break.

I stood in front of him and grabbed the water glass on the nightstand.

Beverage a sip.

Then another.

Then I set it down.

And untied the first tie of the robe.

His jaw tightened.

But he didn't move away.

My hands were trembling.

But I didn't move away either.

"Tell me to stop," I breathed.

He stood. His body was close—too close. His scent—dark spice and clean soap—filled me.

"I won't," he replied. His voice was a near-whisper. "Unless you want me to."

I shook my head.

"Tonight, I don't want to be alone."

He raised his hand and swept a strand of damp hair out of my face.

His fingers were warm.

His eyes gentler now.

"They won't be," he said.

I moved forward.

And he met me halfway.

The kiss wasn't frantic.

It wasn't reckless.

It was deep.

Quiet.

And full of everything we weren't saying.

His hand rested on my waist. My fingers wrapped around the front of his shirt.

The robe came undone. His shirt fell.

And we discovered the bed.

Not out of desperation.

But out of quiet understanding.

We needed something.

Anything.

Even if it was for just one night.

And in that night, I wasn't a girl shattered by life.

He wasn't a man constructed from ice.

We were just… warmth.

And it was enough for a time.