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Strained Meeting
Last Updated:
2025-01-04 14:07:43
Latest chapter
Too Close To Handle I stayed because you’re still my home
Edward paused in the doorway of the guest room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp spilling across the quiet space. His brows furrowed when he saw Abigail sitting at the edge of the bed, her hands folded neatly on her lap as if bracing herself for his arrival.“Why are you sleeping here?” he asked gently. His voice was calm, but there was a faint note of hurt beneath it.After the confrontation at the convent, Abigail had come with him willingly—silent, distant, but compliant. She hadn’t argued or complained. He knew she wasn’t ready to face his father or anyone else after what had happened. And truthfully, he wasn’t ready either. Seeing his family again would only remind him of the pain that had taken everything from them.He took a step closer. “We have our own room, Abigail. Why—”“I’m more comfortable here,” she said quietly, her tone steady but fragile. “I came with you, but that doesn’t mean…”“Doesn’t mean you want to live as husband and wife again?” he finished for her softly.
Too Close To Handle Dangerous hope that maybe
Days passed quietly in the orphanage.The rhythm of life there was simple — bells in the morning, prayers before breakfast, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyard where children played.Abigail had always thought of silence as punishment. But here, in these soft, measured days, silence began to feel like something else — a kind of mercy.She woke each morning to the scent of bread baking in the kitchen. The air was cool, filled with the sound of small feet running down the halls. Sometimes one of the younger girls would peek through the door, eyes wide with curiosity.“Are you the lady from the rain?” they would ask, and she would smile faintly, nodding.“Yes. The one who forgot her umbrella.”They would giggle and disappear again.At first, she barely spoke to anyone. She spent her hours helping in the garden behind the chapel, her hands finding comfort in the soil — planting, watering, tending. There was something about watching things grow that eased the ache inside her, even
Too Close To Handle He would become her world instead.
Edward hadn’t slept.It had been three days since Abigail disappeared from the hospital, and each morning felt colder than the last. Her letter — folded and worn from being read too many times — stayed in his pocket like a wound that refused to close.He’d searched everywhere.Her previous apartment. The places she used to visit. Even the chapel where she liked to light candles after long days. Every street he drove down felt like chasing a ghost.Every night, he told himself he’d stop — that if she wanted to be found, she would have left a sign. But every morning, he woke up and started again. Because not looking felt like giving her permission to vanish completely.The sky was dull and gray that afternoon when he found himself driving toward the edge of the city. Rain had just begun to fall again — a thin drizzle that blurred the windshield and painted the world in muted silver.He didn’t know what drew him down that road. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Or maybe, some quiet part
Too Close To Handle Not in the way pain breaks
When Abigail left the hospital, she didn’t know where to go. Her body simply moved — as if her heart, not her mind, was steering her.The road blurred beneath the soft drizzle of morning rain until she found herself standing before her grandmother’s grave. It was the only place that had ever felt like home.She knelt beside the cold marble, tracing the faint letters of her grandmother’s name with trembling fingers. The scent of wet grass lingered in the air.“If you were still here,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “I wouldn’t be this lost.”She closed her eyes.Images flooded her — the gentle hands that once brushed her hair, the lullabies that promised the world wasn’t as cruel as it seemed. But those hands had been gone for years, and the world had proved itself cruel over and over again.When her grandmother died, everything else had followed — her parents’ affection, her place in the family, her sense of belonging. They’d sent her away to the convent, to a life measured by sil
Too Close To Handle Things she could no longer give
The first light of morning filtered through the blinds, painting the room in pale gold. The world outside was waking — nurses walking the corridors, wheels rolling softly against tile, the distant murmur of life continuing.But inside, time felt still.Edward had barely moved. His arm had gone numb beneath Abigail’s weight, but he didn’t care. She was still asleep, her head resting against his chest, her face peaceful now — though even in sleep, her brow held the faint crease of remembered pain.He studied her quietly, memorizing the fragile calm. Her hair spilled across the pillow, her lips slightly parted as she breathed. For a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself believe that everything might be all right.But then her fingers twitched, and her body shifted away. Slowly, she stirred — blinking as the morning light reached her face.“Good morning,” he whispered.Abigail didn’t answer. Her eyes opened, heavy and distant, searching the cei
Too Close To Handle Desperate to hold on to something real
The soft hum of the hospital lights filled the silence. It was the kind of silence that felt alive — heavy, fragile, almost sacred. Edward lingered at the doorway for a moment before finding his voice.“Red…” he whispered.The word trembled in the air. Abigail didn’t move. She was sitting upright on the bed, her body still, her eyes fixed on the window where a pale dawn was breaking. The world outside was waking, but the room felt like it existed somewhere else — in that quiet limbo between yesterday’s grief and tomorrow’s numbness.Her eyes were swollen, their edges red from hours of crying. Even without tears, her face still carried the ache of them — the hollow exhaustion of someone who had lost something too big to name.Edward stepped inside, his hand tightening around the small container he carried. The faint steam from the soup brushed his fingers. He had held it too tightly on the way up, as if warmth could anchor him to something real.He didn’t know what to say. What could a
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