All Chapters of MEND ME IF YOU CAN.: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I lingered at the kitchen table long after her words had faded, trailing off into the soft hush that now filled the room like smoke. The steam from the tea had long since disappeared, leaving only the faint scent of chamomile clinging to the mug between my palms. It had gone lukewarm, bordering on cold, but I didn’t move.I just sat there.Staring at nothing.Letting the silence wrap around me like a second skin—damp, clinging, a little too tight in all the places I used to be whole.Every creak in the house felt amplified. The ticking clock over the stove. The distant groan of pipes settling. The lazy buzz of the refrigerator motor humming in the background like a pulse I couldn’t match. My chest ached with a strange tightness that didn’t quite belong to heartbreak but hovered close enough to feel like its cousin.My fingers curled slightly around the cup, and I told myself to breathe.Just breathe.And then—A faint sound behind me.Soft. Tentative. The kind of sound that didn’t wan

I cleared the table the moment we were done eating and carried the dishes to the sink, still feeling the warmth of the shared meal lingering in the air. The plates clinked softly against each other as I set them down. Behind me, Travian moved with a kind of quiet ease, wiping down the table with slow, methodical strokes. The scent of spice and wood polish lingered faintly in the room.Grandma was already at the door, purse in hand and scarf neatly wrapped over her head.“I’m going to see a friend,” she said over her shoulder, her phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder. “And I’ll stop by the market on my way back to grab some foodstuffs.”She turned to look at us with that same soft, stern gaze she always wore before leaving the house—like she was silently reminding us to behave, to stay safe, to be good.“You boys take care of the house while I’m gone, you hear?” her voice rang out before the door closed with a gentle thud.Typical Grandma—always careful, always watching over m

His fingers trailed down my sides, brushing every inch like he was mapping me out all over again—touch by touch, sigh by sigh. It wasn’t rushed, not anymore. It was slow and intentional, like a man rediscovering a favorite song, memorizing each note as though he feared forgetting the melody. His touch was reverent, like each pass of his hand was both apology and adoration, a silent confession written against my skin.His lips followed his fingers. Neck. Shoulder. Breast. He took his time there, wrapping his lips around my nipple, sucking gently before dragging his tongue over it, teasing me until my back arched and a soft moan escaped my lips. My stomach clenched with every kiss, every flick of his tongue—small fires lit in the hollow of my body, blooming in places I thought had gone numb. He kissed me like I was art. Something he couldn’t get enough of. Something worth revering. And with each press of his lips, he poured something unspoken into me—something gentle, something raw, som

The day slipped by in fragments, like shards of glass scattered across the floor. Each moment caught the light for a second, then faded into the dull weight pressing on my chest. The hum of the village drifted through the walls, soft and constant, carrying with it the faint chatter of neighbors trading gossip, children chasing each other barefoot, and the low creak of carts on the gravel road. Even the smell of bread rising in Grandma’s oven—a scent that once pulled me into the heart of comfort—felt distant now. I could see the world, hear it, almost touch it, but I wasn’t part of it.It was as if I lived inside a glass box. Everything close, yet sealed away.My thoughts circled the same words, like vultures refusing to leave a carcass.You owe me. Don’t fail me.The weight of them pressed against my chest, sharp as broken glass, and no matter how I shifted, I couldn’t shake them off.I sat on the porch as the sun dipped lower, streaking the sky with bruised orange and fading pink. My

The streets had gone eerily silent by the time I left the small market, clutching the few coins and scraps Grandma had managed to spare. The usual laughter of children had vanished, shutters were drawn tight, and even the stray dogs seemed to have melted into the shadows. Overhead, the sky sagged heavy and gray, the kind of suffocating dusk that pressed down on your chest and made each breath feel like borrowed air.I should have hurried home. I knew better than to wander too long after dark, knew the kind of eyes that prowled these streets when the world grew quiet. But something in me hesitated, lingering. Maybe I was tired of the endless running, tired of clutching at scraps, tired of the constant gnawing ache in my chest that never seemed to fade.And then I felt it—eyes.A slow, deliberate weight sliding down my spine, burrowing deep under my skin. My steps faltered, my pulse stumbled, and before I could turn, a voice, low and poisoned with mockery, split the silence.“Well, look