Chapter 165: Chapter 165
Music Recommendation: The One That Got Away by Katy Perry.
.....
Her mother’s question hung in the air, cutting deeper than anything Amara wanted to face.
Her sobs shook her shoulders, sharp and ungraceful, the kind that made her chest ache as if she were breaking apart from the inside. She tried to breathe, but it came out jagged, and unsteady.
"Mom," she whispered, her voice raw, and broken, "You know this. You know I’ve spent so long being what people wanted me to be. Bright enough, good enough, polished enough. Like I’m made of glass and glitter. Something to look at, but not something to hold."
Her hand pressed against her sternum, as if she could cage her heart before it spilled completely. "And now, when he looks at me, he sees me. And it’s too much. Because what if I shatter? What if I don’t survive being seen?"
On the other end of the line, her mother inhaled, slowly, and tenderly. Almost smiling. "Sweetheart, you are not a mirror for someone else to gaze into. You are not a decoration. You are a woman with her own fire, and her own shadows. He may see you, but that doesn’t mean he owns you."
Amara’s eyes squeezed shut, hot tears streaking her face. "But I don’t know who I am without the glass. Without the performance. And with him... I can’t hide. He doesn’t let me. I don’t want the world to see me. I don’t think they’ll understand but somehow, I just want him to know who I am."
Her mother’s voice caught, almost trembling itself now. "Maybe, baby, that’s why you’re terrified. Because he’s not dazzled by the reflection. He’s reaching for the cracks, the sharp edges you think no one should touch. And that’s why it feels dangerous. Because it isn’t about illusion anymore."
Amara lowered herself into the balcony chair, her whole body folding in on itself. She pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead, rocking ever so slightly. "I don’t know how to live like that. I don’t know how to be loved without breaking."
Her mother was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, she said. "Amara... maybe breaking isn’t the end. Maybe it’s the beginning. Maybe the shatter is where the light finally gets in."
The words hollowed her chest even further, like a wound she hadn’t known was waiting to be touched. Her sob hitched, her voice crumbling around the syllables. "I don’t know if I can, Mom. I don’t know if I can survive him."
Her mother’s reply was barely above a whisper, but steady as the tide. "Then don’t think of surviving him. Think of surviving yourself. Surviving the fear. You’ve done harder things, baby. You’ve carried pain longer than anyone should. And still, you’re here. You’re still here."
Amara’s tears slowed, not from healing but from exhaustion. She leaned her head back against the chair, the after-rain air cooling her wet cheeks. For the first time since dialing her mother’s number, she felt something fragile inside her loosen, like a grip unclenching.
Her mother spoke once more, softer than the wind itself. "You don’t have to decide today. But remember this: love isn’t the performance. Love is what stays when the music fades and the lights go dark. So ask yourself, Amara, does he stay in the dark?"
Amara swallowed hard, her throat raw. The image of Elias, relentless even when she pushed, unyielding even when she tried to disappear, and pressed against her chest like a bruise.
Her tears threatened again, but this time they didn’t fall. She whispered into the receiver, voice almost gone, "He stays."
She remembered how he nurtured her bruised cheek last night, before ever touching her. She remembered how he didn’t touch her further after pleasuring her, but cuddled her into going to sleep.
"Now_" a knock interrupted her. "Mom wait,"
"Do you want me to make you breakfast?" Elias asked softly, from the other end of the door.
Amara’s stomach immediately made a sound. She smiled softly. "It’s 5 am, but yes."
"Alright," Elias replied from the other end, and she heard his retread footsteps.
"Wooshhhh!" Her mother yelled at the other end, immediately switching personalities. "Damn, is he the one? Tell me he is."
Amara let out a low breath, preparing herself to deal with her mother’s girlie side. "He is," she laughed. "He cooks. Which is acceptable."
"Which is bare minimum." Her mother corrected. "Yeah, bare minimum but acceptable."
Amara wiped the wetness from her cheeks, letting herself laugh. "Yes, Mom. Bare minimum. Don’t worry, I haven’t completely lost my standards."
Her mother hummed, pleased. "Good. Because, baby, cooking doesn’t mean you should crown him king. A man can scramble eggs and still scramble your peace, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Amara said softly, though her chest tightened anyway. Elias wasn’t peace. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He was heat and edges and persistence. The kind of man who made staying away feel impossible.
Her mother seemed to sense her hesitation, because her voice gentled again. "It’s okay not to know what to call him yet. Just... notice how he makes you feel. Notice if you can breathe easier when he’s near, or if you’re holding your breath."
Amara closed her eyes, picturing Elias on the other side of the kitchen wall, already moving like he belonged there. She hadn’t realized until this moment that she was breathing a little easier, even with the ache still raw inside her.
"I’ll call you later, Mom," she whispered, her voice catching on the words.
"Alright, baby girl. And Amara?"
"Yes?"
"Don’t just let him cook. Make him do the dishes too. That’s how you know if he’s worth keeping."
Amara snorted, the unexpected sound breaking through the heaviness clinging to her. "I’ll keep that in mind."
When she finally hung up, the silence of the apartment filled in again, but it wasn’t suffocating. Her chest felt hollow, but for once, not in a way that terrified her.
She rose from the chair slowly, wiping the last traces of tears from her face. Time will tell. She just prays she doesn’t relive what she thought she’d never have to go through again, with him.