Collided Souls

C A N E

A week later.

I took a deep breath. 

Staring down at my phone, I reread a few late messages from my mother. Rain poured hard, wrapping the air in loneliness as I read over them again. The annual family meet-up was coming, and I wasn't in the mood to be surrounded by people pretending to be close. 

I shot her a text: I won't be able to come this year. So far, it worked. I placed my phone in the cup holder and sat in silence. 

Get a grip. Get out of the car. 

Nerves gnawed at me until I finally built the courage to open the door. 

Cold, steady rain clung to my clothes the second I stepped out. I yanked up my hoodie and jogged inside for warmth. Pushing damp fingers through my hair, I scanned the restaurant. 

A familiar face sat, alone and distant. 

Unbelievable. 

"Hi, how can I help you, sir?" the host asked. 

"Just here to see someone." I pointed.

He nodded, letting me pass through the rows of tables until I stood across from him. I slid into the seat, grabbed a napkin, and cleaned my glasses. 

"Was this really necessary?" I muttered, tossing the napkin aside and putting my glasses back on. 

Matthew looked up. "Yes." 

I stared at him. "Why am I here?" 

Surprisingly, he'd been... less aggravating lately. Quieter. Which I didn't mind—usually, he's on my back like a rash. 

"I wanted to talk about the annual Teacher Hall." He waved off a nearby waiter.

I almost laughed. "No." 

Once a year, college instructors gathered for recognition—awards, networking, speeches. I'd never gone. That time of year, I'd rather be holed up in my apartment, reading and feeding Witty. 

"Why? You never come," he said, practically pouting. 

"Because there's no point." I shrugged. 

"People ask about you, Cane." 

"I doubt that." 

"The principal from Havenwood did," he challenged, tapping the table. 

I sighed. "Still no." 

"At least think about it. They're adding a writing showcase this year. I've seen your work—you should enter."  He slid a card across the table.

I picked it up, slowly. 

First Imogen. Now him. 

Whiskey eyes. 

My stomach twisted at the thought of her. The story I was writing—our story—was meant to stay secret. At least to me. 

Matthew stood, fixed his suit, and gave my shoulder a firm pat. 

"Think about it," he said, and left. 

I stared down at the card. My jaw clenched. 

Whether it's Imogen, Matthew, or the president himself—the answer is still no. 

I left the restaurant and headed back to my car.  The rain had lightened, but not my mood. I drove home with the card still balled up in my fist. 

Writing has never been about fame. It's not something I throw around. It's my outlet—my escape. It's how I forget the pain. 

At home, I kicked the door shut behind me and leaned on it. Counted back from ten.

Meow. 

Witty appeared from my bedroom, her little black head popping out as she raced over and pawed at my leg. I smiled, scooped her up, and rubbed her ears. 

"Just me and you," I whispered as she purred into my neck. 

I dropped onto the couch, peeled off my glasses, and leaned back with a sigh. My hand dragged across my face—Bang! Bang! Bang! 

Rapid knocking crashed against the door. 

Witty hissed. 

"What the hell?" I whispered, heart jolting. 

I rushed to the door—and opened it to her. 

Imogen. 

"Baby?" I said softly. Her face was pale. Her eyes full of panic. "Hey... what's—" 

"Christian," she choked out. 

I pulled her in fast, closing the door behind us. 

She collapsed into me, crying. 

"Baby, talk to me." I cupped her face, wiping tears from her cheeks. 

"Christian, he... he..." She couldn't even finish. 

"He what?"  She looked at me—shaking, terrified. 

"Christian," she whispered. "He escaped." 

The air in the room turned thick. My heartbeat thundered. Not just from the news—but from what she said next. 

"Cane... we can't be together anymore."

A/N

In comes tears 💌