Chapter -4 Fractured bonds

Chapter -4 Fractured bonds

The golden hues of the setting sun bathed the college terrace in a warm glow as Anya climbed the stairs. Her heart thudded against her ribs, each step laced with dread and determination.

At the far edge, Ryan stood alone, his frame silhouetted against the orange sky. He turned as she approached, and the moment their eyes met, his face softened—an uneasy blend of guilt and concern.

"Anya," he murmured, stepping forward and pulling her into an unexpected embrace.

She stiffened in his arms, caught off guard by the sudden closeness.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair, voice trembling. "I had no idea what you've been going through. I should've been there. I wasn't."

Anya slowly pulled away, her eyes searching his. "I'm fine," she said evenly, though her voice barely concealed the turmoil churning beneath the surface.

Ryan didn't let go. His grip on her shoulders tightened. "No, you're not. I've been trying to figure out who's behind all this. I want to help."

She shook her head gently. "You don't have to get involved. I need to handle this myself."

A flicker of frustration crossed his face. "Why are you pushing me away? Even at the dean's office... you wouldn't even look at me."

Anya inhaled slowly, grounding herself. "Because I think... we need to take a break."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"I mean it, Ryan," she said, her voice low but resolute. "This... us... it isn't working."

"No," he said quickly, reaching for her hand. "If this is because I wasn't there—if I was distant—I swear it'll change. I'll make time. I won't neglect you again. Please, don't do this."

She tried to pull her hand back, but he held on tighter.

"You're hurting me," she said quietly.

His eyes snapped to where his fingers clutched her wrist—already reddening. He let go at once, horror flashing across his face. "Anya... I—I didn't mean to... We should go to the hospital—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "I'm okay. Just… let's stay calm. Let's talk like adults."

He nodded, breathing heavily, shame lining his features. "Then tell me what I did. Just tell me what I did wrong."

Anya hesitated. A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind especially previous life moments, all the moments she questioned his loyalty, the silence she kept, the ache of trust already cracked.

"You talked about our relationship with your best friend," she said finally. "About me. About us. That's not something you do when you trust someone."

Ryan's breath caught. His mind raced to the conversation two nights ago. His friend had convinced him that Anya was becoming too dependent, too distracted. That maybe pretending to break up would make her "get serious." It had seemed harmless then. Strategic, even. But now…

"I overheard everything," Anya said quietly. "You thought I lacked ambition. That I was too dependent on you. So you staged a fake breakup behind my back?"

He stepped toward her, but she held up a hand.

"If we had understanding," she continued, voice steady but soft, "you would've talked to me, not someone else. I'm not blaming you for everything. I haven't been honest either. But if we're not even communicating, if there's no trust... then what are we doing?"

Ryan looked shattered. "I know I messed up. I'll fix this, Anya. I'll be better. I'll talk to you, not anyone else. Just don't break up with me."

She gave him a sad smile. "I'm not ending it forever. But for now... let's step back. Let's start over—as friends."

Silence stretched between them, the kind that felt heavier than any words.

Later that evening, Anya sat curled on her bed, the dim light from her desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The weight of the day pressed against her shoulders, but beneath it, something else stirred—resolve.

She picked up her phone, fingers hovering over a number she hadn't dialed in years. With one breath, she tapped it.

The line rang once. Then twice.

"Hello?" a man's voice answered, formal and cautious.

"This is Anya," she said, voice calm but firm. "I need to speak with my mother's lawyer."

There was a pause. "Of course, Miss Anya. I'll connect you immediately."

As she waited, memories flickered—her mother's letters, the mysteries left behind, the lies buried deep. She had let things slide for too long.

The line clicked.

"Miss Anya," came the smooth, practiced voice. "It's good to hear from you. How can I assist you?"

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then said, "I need access to all of my mother's files. Every document. Every hidden record. It's time I learned everything."

A moment passed.

"Understood. I'll begin arrangements immediately."

The call ended. Anya placed the phone on her nightstand and stared out the window into the inky night. The silence felt different now. Less like loneliness. More like the calm before a storm.

She wasn't just healing.

She was preparing.