Semua Bab Love, Lessons, and Late Blossoms: Bab 31 - Bab 40

POV: Layla BrooksThe white walls of the hospital felt louder than the screams in the warehouse.They hummed with sterile quiet. Too clean. Too calm. Like grief and fear didn’t belong here. Like pain was meant to be disinfected and tucked beneath crisp sheets and fluorescent lights.I lay still, eyes open.Sleep hadn’t come.Even after the sedative.Even after the doctor murmured gently, “You’re safe now.”I didn’t feel safe.Not really.Because safety wasn’t just about where you were. It was about what still lived inside you.And inside me, something was still screaming.The IV dripped slowly beside me, its rhythm steady. My arms bore the fading bruises from the restraints, and my throat was raw from thirst, from fear, from silence.But what hurt most wasn’t visible.It was the way my body flinched at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The way my muscles locked every time someone opened the door, even if it was a nurse. The way I waited for Ethan’s face to appear again.I’d survi

POV: Layla BrooksThe morning after felt oddly still.No nightmares. No screaming in my chest. Just a heavy ache behind my eyes and a softness to the light that filtered through the curtains. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t wake up bracing for the worst.I stayed in bed longer than I should have, listening to the quiet hum of the house. I heard the clinking of teacups, the soft rhythm of my mother’s steps in the kitchen. The world was still spinning, unbothered by the cracks in my life. But I was breathing. That was something.Downstairs, the dining table was already set. Tea, toast, a bowl of grapes. My mom sat at the far end with her hands wrapped around a mug like it was the only warmth she could hold onto.“You’re up,” she said gently, her eyes scanning me for unspoken things.I nodded and slid into the seat across from her. She didn’t push words on me, didn’t rush me to talk. She just passed me the cup of tea she’d made.That cup of tea said everything.It said: I’m

POV: Layla BrooksMara arrived just after sunset.She didn’t text beforehand. No grand gesture. Just a gentle knock at the door of my apartment, followed by her familiar silhouette framed in warm hallway light.“I brought food,” she said, holding up a paper bag like a peace offering. “And a bottle of something that pretends to be wine.”I opened the door wider. “Then you can definitely come in.”She smiled, and I could tell she was studying me—quietly, carefully, the way people do when they’re trying to gauge how deep the wounds go without asking outright.The last time we’d sat together, I had barely spoken. My head was fogged by fear, my body still recovering from the trauma of being held against my will. This time was different. I was different.She set the bag down on the kitchen counter and pulled two glasses from the cabinet like she had lived here once. Maybe in some ways, she had. Not this physical space—but the emotional one. The part of me that remembered how it felt to laug

POV: Layla BrooksThe offer letter sat in my inbox like a bomb waiting to detonate.Subject: CONFIDENTIAL – Editor Consideration | The Fold MagazineI’d opened it six times, read every word, checked the sender address to make sure it wasn’t a scam. It wasn’t.The Fold was legendary. A publication that shaped global culture, led opinion, launched voices into the stratosphere. Writers waited years for a freelance feature spot. Editors? They barely ever left. And when they did, it was like a shifting star—noticeable, rare, and full of possibility for the person who stepped in.And now, they were asking me to apply for the open junior editor position.Me. Layla Brooks. Editorial assistant.I sat at my desk that morning, the office still quiet, the city barely awake, staring at the screen like it held the answer to a question I hadn’t dared ask: Was I ready for this?My hands trembled. But only slightly.By mid-morning, everyone was in. Lucas passed by my desk, flashing his usual easy grin

POV: Mara GreeneLayla was smiling again. But I’d learned not to trust smiles. Not the kind she wore lately—thin, practiced, flickering like a candle someone kept trying to blow out.We’d both learned to master the art of pretending after trauma. So I saw through it.And I worried.“I’m fine,” she said that Saturday as we sat in our favorite little café, the one with chipped mugs and piano jazz playing too low for anyone but us to notice.She stirred her tea like it held secrets. Like her silence could dissolve if she just kept moving the spoon long enough.“You’re not,” I replied gently.Layla looked up, her eyes betraying the fatigue beneath her polished face. “I’m just tired. Work’s intense. The Fold application. That’s all.”“You’ve been tired before,” I said. “This feels different.”She didn’t answer right away.I waited.It’s how we’d learned to talk—quietly, carefully, giving each other the space to unfold or retreat.“I feel like I’m holding everything up with strings,” she