Chapter 3

My dear reader, I ask you this:

If a stranger appears outside your balcony in the middle of the night, do you—

(A) Scream like a normal person?

(B) Call the cops because, hello, trespassing?

(C) Stare at him like an absolute dumbass because your brain refuses to function?

If you guessed C, congratulations. You win the grand prize of being as fucking stupid as me.

Because right now? I am frozen.

Neil Varian.

On my balcony.

Like he belongs there.

He tilts his head. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"My dear reader," I whisper, "have I?"

I blink. Once. Twice. He's still there.

So either I'm hallucinating, or—

"How the fuck did you get up here?" I finally ask.

Neil's grin widens. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Here's the thing about Neil—

I don't trust him.

And yet, like the absolute moron I am, I unlock the balcony door and let him in.

Because apparently, my survival instincts have left the chat.

He steps inside, glancing around my room like it's interesting. It's not. It's just books, unfinished paintings, and the general aesthetic of someone barely holding it together.

He stops in front of my desk, picks up my sketchbook.

I stiffen.

"Don't—"

Too late.

He flips it open, skimming through the pages. And just like that, my anxiety spikes.

Neil hums, amused. "You draw me a lot."

I freeze.

Oh, fuck.

I snatch the sketchbook from his hands and shove it under my arm like that will erase reality itself.

"Do not read into that," I warn. "In fact, let's pretend you never saw that."

He raises a brow. "That's going to be hard. You're a really good artist."

I malfunction.

Brain error 404. Please try again later.

Neil just watches me fall apart in real-time, then leans against my desk, crossing his arms.

"You were having a panic attack," he states.

I flinch.

That's the problem with Neil. He sees too much.

I force a laugh. "What? Me? Panicking? Pfft."

Neil doesn't smile. "You couldn't breathe."

I grip the sketchbook tighter. "So what?"

His gaze darkens, but there's something else in it, too. Something I don't understand.

"You shouldn't be here," I snap, redirecting the conversation. "This place—this house—it's not… it's not meant for people like you."

Neil tilts his head. "People like me?"

"People who can still breathe"

---

I don't know how long we stand there.

Me, a twitching mess.

Him, calm. Too calm.

And then—

Footsteps.

My entire body locks up.

Neil notices immediately. His eyes flicker to the door. "Who—"

I slap a hand over his mouth. "Shh."

His eyebrows shoot up. He makes a muffled noise against my palm.

I don't care.

Because those footsteps? They belong to my father.

And he doesn't knock.

I pull Neil toward the balcony. "You need to go. Now."

He resists. "Charssein—"

"I'm serious!" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. Desperate. "You can't be here when he comes in. Trust me."

Something flickers in Neil's expression. Something dangerous.

But then—he listens.

With one last unreadable glance, he slips back onto the balcony, vanishing into the night.

The moment he's gone, my door swings open.

The Man Who Calls Himself My Father doesn't say a word.

He just stands there, scanning my room, his expression blank. Calculating.

I force myself to stand still. To look normal.

Normal? The fuck.

Because if he notices anything out of place, I am so dead.

His gaze settles on me. "Who were you talking to?"

I swallow. "No one."

An asshole.

A lie, I'm not sure he believes.

But then, he just sighs. "I have a business trip tomorrow. You will come with me."

I blink. "What?"

"You will observe how a real businessman works," he says. "You're almost of age. You need to stop this nonsense and start preparing for your future."

I stare at him.

"My future?" I repeat. "You mean your future."

His expression darkens. "Do not start with me, Charssein."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

The room feels colder.

And then—his voice drops.

"I will not have a son who is a failure."

Ah. There it is.

The sentence that has been carved into my bones since childhood.

"My dear reader," I whisper inside my own head. "It's almost funny how predictable this is."

I take a breath. "I'm not going."

His eyes narrow. "You will."

"No."

Silence.

A beat too long.

Then—

SLAP.

The impact stings, but I don't move.

Because I expected it.

Because it's nothing new.

My dear reader, do you ever wonder how many times you can be broken before there's nothing left to break?

I lower my gaze. "Are we done?"

His lips press into a thin line. Then, with nothing else to say, he turns and leaves.

The door slams shut behind him.

I stand there.

The echo of his words still crawling under my skin.

My body still aching from the slap.

My hands still shaking.

I laugh. Because what else is there to do?

"My dear reader," I whisper, "do you ever look at your life and think: wow, what a fucking joke?"

I turn toward the balcony. Expecting emptiness.

Instead—

Neil.

Still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like he knew I'd need him.

Like he never really left.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

I don't feel alone.

---

Have you ever had one of those nights where your brain won't shut the fuck up?

Where your body is exhausted, your soul is begging for peace, and yet—

Your thoughts? Louder than a goddamn funeral scream.

Yeah.

That's me.

Lying on my bed. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling my ribs vibrate from the aftershock of my father's slap.

And the worst part?

Neil is still here, on my fucking balcony.

Just standing there watching me like a creep.

The Guest Who Never Leaves

I turn my head slowly.

Neil tilts his, mirroring me.

We stare at each other through the glass door.

I blink.

He blinks back.

I exhale.

"Are you going to come in or just stand there like a horror movie villain?"

Neil grins. "Depends. Do you want me to come in?"

Honestly, I am so fucking tired.

I don't answer. I just roll onto my side, turning my back to him.

I expect him to take the hint and leave.

Instead— I hear the balcony door slide open.

I freeze.

Footsteps. Soft and careful.

Then—the weight of someone sitting on the edge of my bed.

"My dear reader," I breathe, "what the actual fuck is happening right now?"

"You should sleep," Neil says, voice too soft for someone who just broke into my room.

I scoff. "Wow, thanks. I never thought of that."

Silence.

Then—

"You're shaking."

I stiffen.

I pull my blanket higher, hiding my hands. "No, I'm not."

"You are."

His voice is too close now.

I don't move. I don't breathe.

Because if I do—

If I acknowledge the way my body is trembling, the way my throat is still raw from vomiting, the way my mind won't shut the fuck up—

Then it's real.

Then I am real.

And I don't want to be real right now.

Neil exhales through his nose, like he's debating something.

Then—

He moves.

Not away.

Closer.

I feel the bed shift as he lies down next to me.

Not touching but just existing.

'What the fuck do I do now?'

---

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

Sleep is a joke.

Neil is still here.

I finally snap.

"Why the fuck are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"A trespassing bastard with boundary issues."

He laughs, and I hate that it actually sounds nice.

"I could leave if you really want me to," he muses.

I should say yes.

I should kick him out.

But instead—

I sigh. "Do whatever you want."

Another silence. Then—

"I'll stay."

I pretend that doesn't make my chest feel weird.

---

Alone, But Not Really

I stare at the ceiling.

Neil stares at me.

The night stretches on.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

The silence doesn't feel empty.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...