Chapter Text
James
I run my hands through my hair. I breathe in as I look up and close my eyes. My breathing slows down gradually.
I look back down at the palms of my hands. I wipe the tiny gravel particles and the other shit that was on my hands off my technical pants. I notice a raindrop stain on my left knee.
Not a raindrop.
I dissociated to the point of not even realizing I'm crying.
I slowly manage to get up, bracing myself against the wall that's next to me. I just stand here for a few seconds debating my next move.
I can either go home, shower, go back to Kenji and Winston's place, and eat my breakfast that is actually supposed to be lunch but we're all too tired to care.
Or go to Nazeera's empty ass house and talk to Rosabelle.
No.
No way—
Warner might actually kill me if I chose the second option.
I don't even have to talk to her. I just want to make sure she's okay.
Snap out of it.
I force myself to take a step forward. Then another. I rub my eyes with my hands. I probably look like shit.
I try to orientate myself, find out where exactly I am. It looks like I'm around five minutes away from my house. I make my way down the street, passing multiple shops and buildings as I do.
Then it dawns on me, stops me in my tracks.
Did I just have a panic attack?
I know Warner sometimes gets those, and Kenji is always around to calm him down, since he doesn't want Juliette to worry.
I run my hand down my face.
A girl who I've never seen before walks by me. She smiles and looks in my direction a little too long for my liking. Which reminds me that someone leaked my line and I've been getting paged by a bunch of creepy people sending very indecent messages— to say the least.
I sigh and shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt. My denim jacket was destroyed when Rosabelle and I got attacked in the warehouse.
Rosabelle and I.
While she was wearing my jacket.
Fuck my life.
Now that my brain has accidentally reminded me of the one person I was dying not to be reminded of—again— I can actually think about her.
As I mentioned before, what she did makes no sense; we shared that moment in the diner, I know that was real.
She kissed my heart.
Even if she was as bad of a person people paint her to be, she wouldn't play with my feelings like that.
She fought alongside me. She was screaming my name, begging me to help her.
I couldn't get to her in time.
I should've killed him.
I should've ripped his throat out the second I saw her injured and covered in blood.
I lose track of where I'm going when I bump shoulders with someone. My first instinct is to mumble an apology and go on my merry way but the glimpse of unnaturally light blonde hair catches my attention.
I go back half a step and turn around.
She looks at me wide-eyed. Her mouth tips open. The next thing I notice about her hits me like a punch to the gut. A red mark the shape of a hand across her right cheek, and a small give of dried blood on the corner of her mouth. She notices me staring and slightly shakes her head, then turns to walk away.
She's wearing the beanie I gave her the night we got seperated.
I could let her go.
I could let her walk away without giving me an explanation. That's what she wanted after all, isn't it? No contact with me. At all. I should let her go. That's what a normal person would do. But every cell in my body is screaming at me that something's wrong.
“Rosabelle,” I say quietly.
She freezes. I can feel her hesitate. She looks at me over her shoulder. My eyes travel over her face, finally settling on her gaze.
Her gray eyes are cold, cut off. She looks tired. I swear I can hear both of our hearts racing.
You kissed my chest
Your heart
My heart?
Yes.
The memory of that conversation breaks my heart. Fractures, shatters and destroys it.
She looks up at me with something like sadness, like this is killing her, too, before she turns back and tries to walk away. I move before she gets the chance to and lightly get a hold of her writs. Her head snaps in my direction. She looks down to our hands.
My fingers are barely grazing her skin. She can just walk away. I'm not physically restraining her. She can walk off, forget that this happened.
She can.
She just chooses not to.