Strands of Her by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Horror

 

Strands of Her

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,963

Kia never intended to buy anything from the street vendor. She was only killing time between the bus and her night shift at the Waffle House. But the velvet-lined table, draped in a sheer purple cloth and surrounded by mannequin heads with cascading waves, stopped her.

The wigs shimmered unnaturally under the flickering lamplight of the abandoned parking lot. Jet black coils, honeyed ringlets, tight 4C curls, bone-straight silk—each one more beautiful than the last. Real hair. Human hair.

Kia’s own hair had been falling out in clumps since her last relaxer turned wrong. She’d been tying scarves tighter and tighter, avoiding mirrors. The ache of self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin. But these wigs? They were radiant. Regal.

“You got a good eye,” the vendor said.

Kia hadn’t seen her approach. The woman was tiny, wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat, her smile slinking beneath hollow cheekbones. Her voice sounded like a cough halfway through a cigarette.

“They come from all over,” she said, gesturing to the display. “India. Brazil. Nigeria. Even some real local pieces. Pure. Untouched. No heat. No dye. Hair full of memory.”

“Memory?” Kia repeated.

“Everything we are stays in the strand,” the woman said, lifting a long, dark curl between her fingers. “Energy. Story. Soul. We only give what the head no longer needs.”

Kia squinted. “Wait, you mean—these are from dead people?”

The woman smiled wider. “Don’t they always say, beauty is eternal?”

Kia should’ve walked away. She should’ve laughed, called the woman crazy. But her hand moved before her brain. It hovered over a curly bob with a deep side part and a shine like oil on water. It was soft. Too soft.

“How much?” Kia asked.

The woman held up five fingers. “But once it’s yours, it’s yours. Can’t give it back.”

Kia paid. It was all the cash she had left for the week, but she didn’t care. Something about the wig pulled her. A magnetism that felt warm, familiar. She took it home and, under the yellow glow of her bathroom light, she placed it on her head.

The fit was perfect. Uncannily so. The curls framed her face like they belonged there. She turned her head left, then right. Ran her fingers through the strands. It didn’t even feel like a wig. It felt… natural.

She wore it out the next day.

And people stared.

But not in the usual way, not like they were judging her for being tired or Black or poor. They stared like she glowed. Like she’d stepped out of a magazine. At the Waffle House, her manager stammered when he asked her to wait tables instead of working the register. Customers tipped extra. Even James, her regular who never said more than “scattered, smothered, covered,” looked at her like she’d grown wings.

Kia felt beautiful. That night, she ran her fingers through the curls and whispered, “Thank you.”

She swore the wig pulsed. Like it heard her.

Then, deep in the quiet of her apartment, a sound slithered through the air. A whisper. Faint, like breath against her ear.

“You’re welcome.”

Two nights later, she started dreaming.

She was underground. Cold. Dirt in her throat. Someone was screaming, but the sound never left their mouth. Nails scratched the inside of a coffin lid. The air was thick—choking—with decay and... grief.

Kia woke up gagging, clutching her throat as if she could still feel the weight of the soil pressing in. Her sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to her body like a second skin. She sat up, rubbing her arms, shivering despite the heat in her apartment.

Then she saw it.

The wig.

It sat on her nightstand exactly where she had left it. But it wasn’t the same.

It looked longer.

The curls were tighter, richer, like they had been freshly coiled overnight. Darker, too, though she hadn’t washed it, hadn’t even touched it since tossing it aside two days ago.

With slow, reluctant fingers, she picked it up.

It was damp.

Heavy with moisture, as if it had been left out in a storm. Droplets clung to the ends of the strands, slipping down onto her fingers. And when she turned it over, she saw something caught in the netting.

A fingernail.

Lavender polish, chipped and cracked.

Kia gasped and dropped the wig, stumbling back like it had bitten her. Her scalp tingled, burned with phantom fingers, as if the wig had been trying to creep back on while she slept.

No. No. It was a prank. Had to be.

Maybe the vendor used recycled burial hair from morticians or something. Maybe this was what the lady meant by “local.”

Still, she wore it again.

She didn’t want to—but the mirror begged her to.

When it was on, she wasn’t just Kia anymore. She was stunning. Radiant. Magnetic. Even her voice changed—silkier, smoother, a sound that made people lean in closer, listen harder. Men followed her home with wide, wet eyes, tripping over their own feet to be near her. Her ex called after six months of silence, his voice trembling when he said her name.

Like he couldn’t believe he had ever let her go.

But something changed.

The dreams got worse.

The woman from the grave began speaking. Whispering. Pleading.

Find me.
Fix me.
Free me.

Kia’s hands moved in her sleep. She woke up one night digging into her mattress, fingernails split and bloodied, clawing at something that wasn’t there.

She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest.

And the wig—it moved.

She saw it crawl once, inching across the floor like it had tiny legs, dragging itself toward her.

That was the final straw.

She grabbed it with shaking hands, stuffed it into a trash bag, and dragged it outside. The dumpster behind her apartment reeked of old food, but she didn’t care. She shoved the bag in, tied it tight, and set it on fire.

The flames devoured the hair, twisting it like burning flesh. The air filled with the stench of rot and something worse—something sweet and spoiled, like decay masked by perfume. Kia covered her mouth, eyes stinging.

It was over.

She slept better that night.

But in the morning, it was back.

Sitting on her dresser.

Damp. Perfect.

And this time, there was dirt under its lace front.

Kia went back to the lot. The vendor was gone.

In her place was a small girl, maybe nine, hair shaved down to the scalp, sitting cross-legged on the same velvet cloth. Her eyes were too old for her body.

“She said you’d be back,” the girl mumbled. “She don’t sell to people twice. You ain’t supposed to wear the hair more than three nights. After that, it gets hungry.”

Kia trembled. “Whose hair was it?”

The girl tilted her head. “Used to be a preacher’s daughter. Died in ’92. Buried with her Bible and her mama’s ring. But they dug her up. She was fresh.”

Kia’s mouth went dry. “What do I do?”

The girl didn’t answer. She just stared. And then, almost too softly to hear, she said, “She wants her face back.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. “What do you mean, her face?”

The girl didn’t blink. Her eyes, dark and depthless, stayed locked on Kia’s own, unrelenting. “The preacher’s daughter. She wants back what was hers.”

Kia’s stomach lurched. She had thought the hair was just… hair. An extension, a weave, something exotic but harmless. But when she had pinned it into her braids that first night, she had felt something—an odd tingling along her scalp, like the strands were whispering against her skin.

And the dreams.

A girl standing at the foot of Kia’s bed, face blurred like smeared paint, mouth moving in silent rage. A hand reaching—no, clawing—at Kia’s head, fingers sinking into her skull like roots into soil.

Kia squeezed her eyes shut. “I—I can take it out,” she whispered. “I’ll burn it. I’ll—”

The girl shook her head. “It don’t work like that.”

The wind picked up, rustling the abandoned lot, sending dried leaves skittering across the cracked pavement. Kia shivered. “Then what do I do?”

The girl pushed herself to her feet, slow and deliberate. She was small, but her presence was heavy, as if something larger lurked just beneath her skin.

“You give her back what she lost,” the girl said finally.

Kia’s pulse pounded. “And if I don’t?”

The girl’s lips barely moved, but the words cut through the cooling air like a blade.

“Then she takes it.”

Kia’s breath gasped, and she took a stumbling step backward. The evening air had turned thick, pressing against her skin like damp wool. She hadn’t noticed before, but the lot smelled strange—like turned earth and something sweeter beneath it, something wrong.

That night, Kia locked the wig in the freezer, double-bagged. She told herself it was just paranoia, that the strange whispers she’d heard when she wore it were only in her head. Still, she made sure to push it behind the frozen peas and the half-empty tub of ice cream, as if burying it beneath layers of frost would silence whatever had been murmuring against her scalp.

She wrapped her scarf tightly around her braids and climbed into bed, forcing herself to scroll through her phone, watch a mindless show—anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

But at 3:33 a.m., something whispered beneath her floorboards.

“You borrowed my beauty. Now give me your body.”

The voice was soft but insistent, slipping between the cracks of her consciousness like a draft of cold air. Kia’s limbs went stiff. Her breath hitched in her throat. She tried to turn her head, to move even a finger, but her body refused.

The air in her room thickened, heavy with the scent of lavender and something else—something damp, something rotten. Then came the pressure. A slow, deliberate weight against her forehead. Cold. Wet. The touch of lace.

No—

The wig.

It pressed down over her scalp, the icy fibers slithering into place. Curls coiled and twisted around her throat, tightening with a slow, merciless patience.

Kia’s chest seized. Her vision darkened. She could feel the weight of the grave in the air, the pull of something unseen but hungry.

Her last breath bloomed against her lips, tinged with lavender and dirt.

The next morning, Kia stood in the mirror, perfectly still. But her eyes looked wrong. They were too far apart, almost as if her face had been subtly rearranged overnight. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, stretched taut over her bones, reflecting the soft morning light in a way that made her seem more doll than human. And her smile… practiced. Too perfect, too precise, like it had been sculpted rather than formed by emotion.

She reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed the wig gently. The strands were soft, silken, warmer than she remembered them being when she first picked it up. It settled on her scalp like a second skin, whispering secrets she couldn't quite understand. It was hers now. Forever.

Outside, beneath the ancient oak, the girl moved with quiet precision, setting up the deep crimson velvet cloth over the wooden stand. The morning mist curled around her ankles as she placed another mannequin head atop its perch, careful, reverent. A new offering. Another crown.

Her hands hovered over the freshly adorned mannequin, fingers barely grazing the strands of hair before she murmured the familiar words:

“Hair full of memory,” she whispered.

She turned slightly, her gaze lifting to the house, to the window where Kia stood frozen. A knowing smile curled her lips.

“Only give what the head no longer needs.”

Unspoken Words by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Psychological

 

Unspoken Words

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 454

The letter arrived with no return address, and I knew exactly who had sent it. It felt like an intrusion, cold and heavy, as though it had been waiting in the shadows, a piece of the past forcing its way into the present. My fingers shook as I tore the seal, the silence hanging thick in the air. I unfolded the paper, the edges crisp and fragile as if it might crumble in my hands.

"You never asked me to stay. But I never wanted to leave."

Charlotte. My sister. The one who had disappeared a year ago, vanishing without a trace. The police had chalked it up to her running away, but I knew better. Charlotte didn’t run. She left. And I never asked why. I never asked what had made her leave, never asked the question that would have shattered the silence she left behind. Fear had kept me quiet. Afraid of what I might find if I dug too deep.

I read the words again, the ink blurring slightly through my sudden tears. Her absence had been an ache I buried deep inside, something I could ignore for a time, but never forget. I thought I had moved on—thought I could go through life pretending the laughter we shared, chasing each other through the woods behind the house, hadn’t happened. The scent of pine, the damp earth, the way the air felt alive when we were together. But I was wrong. The pain never truly left. And now, these words pulled me back. She was still here. Somehow, she was still here.

"I’m waiting for you."

The letter slipped from my hands, the paper fluttering to the floor. My chest tightened, a cold fist gripping my heart. The house by the lake—our secret place—surged back into my mind, its dark silhouette standing at the edge of the woods. I could almost hear our voices, laughing in the hallways, daring each other to go deeper into the house, a place no one had dared enter for years. But now, it stood in my memory, broken and forgotten, its windows like hollow eyes that had seen too much.

I turned away from the door, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. Fear whispered, doubts tugged at me, and the sharp sting of guilt gnawed at the edges of my mind. I had failed to ask her to stay, failed to ask why she left. But now, there was no turning back. I didn’t know what I’d find when I got there, or if it was truly her waiting, but I knew I had to go. I couldn’t leave her waiting alone anymore. Not after everything we’d left unsaid.

The Last Bookstore by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Literary Fantasy

 

The Last Bookstore

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 582

The scent of aged paper and forgotten dreams clung to the air inside The Last Bookstore, a quiet refuge in a city that had long since traded pages for pixels. Rows of books stood like silent sentinels, their spines worn smooth by the hands of those who still believed in stories. Amelia, the store’s guardian in all but name, ran a dusting cloth over a stack of hardcovers, her fingers lingering over the raised lettering as if greeting old friends.

The door creaked open. A gust of Los Angeles air swirled in—hot pavement, coffee, and car exhaust—before the hush of the shop swallowed it whole. A young man hesitated at the threshold, clutching a book as if it might vanish. His fingers curled around the cracked leather cover, his knuckles white. He was no older than twenty-one, his wide eyes filled with something just shy of fear.

He approached the counter in cautious steps, placing the book between them like an offering. “I… I need to know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this real?”

Amelia tilted her head, studying him. Not just his nervous stance or the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes—but the way he held the book, like something precious yet foreign. She had seen this before. The ones who came looking for something they couldn’t name.

She turned her gaze to the title. The Whispers of the Ancients. The gold lettering had dulled with age, the spine barely holding together. She traced the cover with one finger, feeling the grooves left by time.

“Real?” she murmured. She met his eyes then, steady and knowing. “If the world forgets something, does that make it any less real?”

The young man swallowed hard, but he didn’t look away.

Amelia exhaled and opened the book. The pages creaked, the ink faint but legible. As her eyes skimmed the words, the air in the shop seemed to shift—thicker, charged with something just beyond sight. The dust motes hanging in the light from the front window slowed, suspended as if caught in an invisible current.

Then, a whisper.

Not loud, not even entirely sound, but something that pressed against the edges of the senses, curling like smoke into the ears.

The magic is not gone.

The young man stiffened. His breath hitched. The whisper curled again, soft and insistent.

It is waiting to be rediscovered.

A faint glow pulsed from the book’s pages, as if something within had stirred awake. The young man’s mouth parted, his fingers twitching toward the light before he caught himself.

Amelia smiled then—small but warm, a rare thing. “See?” she said gently. “It was never lost.”

She closed the book, the glow fading, the whisper dissolving into the silence of the store. Carefully, she placed it back in his hands. “Now,” she said, voice softer, “go find your own magic.”

The young man stood there for a moment, clutching the book as though it had weight beyond paper and ink. Then, with something new in his expression—something unshaken by logic—he nodded.

As he stepped out into the city, his silhouette vanished into the hum of the digital world. But Amelia knew. He wouldn’t be the same.

She let out a slow breath and turned back to the shelves, running her fingers along the rows of forgotten stories. Somewhere in these pages, more whispers waited. More seekers would come.

And as long as they did, The Last Bookstore would stand.

Through My Fingers by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

Through My Fingers

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,755

The first time Michael saw Naomi, she was slipping between crowds like smoke, her dark curls catching the light of the setting sun. He had been leaving a coffee shop, distracted by a voicemail he didn’t want to hear—his mother’s voice, clipped and urgent, reminding him of a dinner he had no intention of attending—when she passed him. Just a whisper of sandalwood and something sweeter, lingering in the air like the afterthought of a dream.

By the time he turned, she was already across the street, her laughter spilling into the dusk. It wasn’t the loud kind that demanded attention, but something softer, a private amusement shared with the person beside her. Michael couldn’t hear what was said, but the way she tipped her head back slightly, the way the neon signs reflected in her eyes, made him wish he had. The moment stretched—too brief, too fragile—and then she was gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of pedestrians.

For weeks, she existed in glimpses. A silhouette framed against the glow of a bookstore window, fingers drifting over the spines of novels she never bought. Once, he watched her pull a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages with an absentminded curiosity, only to slide it back into place and leave without looking back. Another time, he caught sight of her slipping into a jazz lounge, her figure vanishing behind a closing door just as a slow trumpet began to play. He lingered outside longer than he meant to, listening to the music she was lost in.

She was an echo, a flicker in the corner of his eye, always half a step ahead. A name he almost asked about but never did.

Then, suddenly, she was real.

They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he, dragged by a coworker who insisted he “needed to get out more”; she, indulging a cousin who had already abandoned her in favor of someone new. The air inside was thick with bass-heavy music, perfume, and the mingling scents of expensive cologne and spilled cocktails.

Michael had been nursing a drink he didn’t want, scanning the room for an excuse to leave, when he spotted her. Naomi, leaning against the balcony railing, the city stretching behind her in glittering indifference. The amber liquid in her glass caught the glow of a nearby lantern, casting warm reflections against her skin. She didn’t look bored, exactly—more like she existed just outside of everything happening around her, untouched.

For a long moment, he only watched. Not out of hesitation, but because she looked like she belonged there, in that space between presence and absence, as if the world shifted just slightly to accommodate her. And then, without turning, she spoke.

“You’re always looking.”

Her voice was low, threaded with quiet amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to say something first and, when he hadn’t, decided to break the silence herself.

His throat tightened. “At what?”

She tilted her head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and smirked. “At me.”

A slow heat crept up his neck, but he held her gaze. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her stay in this moment a little longer, but all he could think about was every time he had seen her before—half-formed memories of a woman who had always been just out of reach.

Michael hadn’t realized he’d been chasing her until he finally caught her.

Naomi was not a woman who could be held.

Some nights, she pressed against him, her body fitting against his as if she had always belonged there. Her fingers traced the curve of his collarbone, delicate and unhurried, like she was memorizing the shape of him. She whispered about constellations, their Greek names rolling off her tongue like poetry, her breath warm against his skin. Orion, cursed by the gods. Cassiopeia, punished for her vanity. She spoke of myths like they were memories, as if she had lived them herself, and Michael listened, entranced, as though holding onto every word might keep her from fading.

Other nights, she disappeared. Days would pass without a word. His messages sat unread, his calls rang unanswered. Then, just as suddenly, she’d return—slipping through his door with the scent of rain in her hair, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as if she had never been gone. If he asked where she had been, she would only smile, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had last night. Do you ever think about leaving the city? She existed in the spaces between presence and absence, and Michael, despite everything, let her.

He told himself it was enough. That he understood her silences as well as her laughter. That he could accept the way she vanished, the way she never truly belonged to any moment for long.

But understanding something doesn’t mean you can live with it.

One night, she stirred beside him, her breath soft against his shoulder. He had been half-asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, when her voice, quiet but certain, cut through the darkness.

“Michael,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

His eyes opened. He turned his head, but she was already staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What do you mean?”

She exhaled, the sound barely more than a sigh. “I think some people are ghosts before they die. Drifting, unable to stay anywhere for too long. Always belonging to something else.”

Michael reached for her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She let him, but her grip was loose, barely there, like the ghost she claimed to be.

“Is that what you are?” he asked.

Naomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.

It unraveled slowly, like the fraying edges of a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

The first time she left without answering his calls, he told himself she just needed space. He remembered thinking that everyone had their own battles, their own moments of retreat. It wasn’t the first time she had withdrawn, and he could almost convince himself that it was normal. They’d been together long enough for him to know that Naomi had a way of disappearing into herself when the world became too loud. He could give her that, he told himself. Time.

The second time, the silence stretched longer. His messages went unread, his calls unanswered, but he convinced himself it was just a phase. Maybe she had gotten busy, maybe she was dealing with something she didn’t want to burden him with. He tried to fill the empty space with rational thoughts, telling himself it was temporary. But doubt began to gnaw at him, that small flicker of unease that had once been a whisper now turning into a murmur of worry.

By the third time, he stopped calling. The quiet in the apartment where they used to share small moments felt heavier now. Each unanswered call made it harder to convince himself that this was just another bump in the road. He felt like he was losing her in pieces, and the weight of it pressed down on him, settling in his chest like a stone. He let the silence stretch further, hoping she would break it, but she never did. And in the stillness, he realized he had already given up trying to reach her.

One night, standing outside her apartment, he knocked twice. Then a third time. His knuckles rapped against the door, but it was as if he was knocking on the very thing that separated them—time, space, the shifting currents of something he couldn’t grasp. The hallway smelled of rain and dust, the air thick with the hush of something already lost. His breath came in shallow, measured intervals as he waited for the sound of footsteps, the turning of the lock.

But there was nothing.

He knew she was inside. He knew she wouldn’t open the door. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side, could feel the weight of her presence, the distance between them. He waited, hoping for some kind of sign, some gesture that would tell him she hadn’t completely disappeared. But the moments stretched, and still, there was no answer.

Eventually, he turned away, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the hallway. It was a hollow kind of walk, one that felt as if he had already said goodbye. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t had the chance.

The last time he saw her, it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t anything. Naomi had stood in his doorway, half-turned toward the night, her expression unreadable, a shadow clinging to her face that he couldn’t place. He wanted to ask her where she was going, what had happened, what had changed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never been good at asking the right questions when it mattered most.

She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, fingers almost gripping it, as if she was weighing something heavier than the night between them. Then, without a word, she left.

Days later, when he finally went looking for her, she was gone. Her number disconnected, her apartment emptied, the space she once filled now vacant and silent. The emptiness gnawed at him, each step he took through the city streets feeling more like a search for a ghost than a person.

The only thing left was a note slipped beneath his door. It was simple, almost too simple for the weight it carried.

"You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay."

Michael read it twice. Then once more. The words blurred together as his eyes stung. There was nothing more to it—no explanation, no apology, no closure.

The ink at the end was smudged, as if she had almost changed her mind, as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted to be held. She had been right there, just on the edge of turning back, of letting herself be caught. But she never did.

As if, for one brief moment, she remembered what it felt like to be wanted, to be loved. But that wasn’t enough to hold her. Naomi was the wind—felt, but never kept. Her presence was like the air itself—always around him, but impossible to hold, to contain. And love, however deep, however honest, had never been enough to keep her from drifting away.

Holy Water and Hellfire by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Romance

  

Holy Water and Hellfire

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,828

The neon lights of Revel, Atlanta’s hottest underground bar, pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. Inside, the bass throbbed, and the air smelled of whiskey, sweat, and desire. Ava Sinclair leaned against the bar, her leather jacket draped over her shoulders like armor. She was a walking contradiction—sharp as a switchblade but soft enough to melt if you were worthy.

Tonight, she wasn’t looking for love. Love had chewed her up and spit her out too many times before. She was here to celebrate survival.

"Whiskey. Neat," she told the bartender, who slid her the drink with a knowing smirk. She didn’t do sugarcoated nonsense, and neither did he.

As she lifted the glass to her lips, she felt eyes on her. Men stared, some intrigued, some intimidated. Ava was used to it. They didn’t understand her—a woman who had talked to angels and beat the devil, who had been shattered and reforged in fire.

"You’re different," a voice said.

She turned, meeting the gaze of a man with storm-gray eyes and a presence that felt like thunder waiting to strike. He was dressed in dark denim and an easy confidence, but she wasn’t fooled. Confidence could be a mask, and she wasn’t in the mood for another liar.

"That supposed to be a compliment or an observation?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Both. But mostly an apology in advance."

"For what?"

He leaned in, voice low. "For how much you’re gonna hate me when I tell you the truth."

Ava’s pulse skipped. "Try me."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I know who you are, Ava Sinclair. I know what you’ve been through. And I know you don’t trust anyone—especially men like me."

Her grip tightened on the glass. "And what kind of man are you?"

"The kind that doesn’t waste time with fake love," he said. "The kind that either walks away now… or stays for real."

Ava studied him. Most men ran their mouths, promised stars, and delivered shadows. This one? He wasn’t promising anything.

That was new.

That was rare.

She smirked, tilting her glass in a mock toast. "Well, aren’t you just a live wire?"

He grinned. "And you’re holy water and hellfire."

Ava’s heart thrummed, but she didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, she downed her drink and set the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink.

"Buy me another, and maybe I’ll let you stay."

The bartender slid another whiskey toward Ava, and she lifted it with a smirk, eyes locked on the storm-gray gaze across from her. The man—Damian Carter—hadn’t flinched under her scrutiny. That alone made him different. Most men either tried too hard to impress her or shrank back when they realized she wasn’t the kind of woman who played nice.

She took a slow sip, letting the silence between them stretch, testing him. Would he fill it with bullshit or let it breathe?

To her surprise, he just leaned back against the bar, watching her with something like curiosity.

"You’re waiting for me to slip up," he said finally.

Ava arched a brow. "No. I’m waiting to see if you’re worth the time."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

She could read men in an instant. Confidence didn’t impress her. Honesty did.

"You said you know who I am." She tilted her head. "That supposed to scare me?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. It’s supposed to save me time."

"How so?"

"Because I know you don’t do games," he said. "And I don’t have time to play them."

A flicker of something warm stirred in her chest, but she buried it. Words were easy. Actions mattered.

"So what’s your angle?" she asked.

Damian sighed, swirling the ice in his glass. "I came here to clear my head, not chase anyone. But then I saw you. And now…" He shrugged. "Now I’m just trying not to screw this up."

Ava smirked. "You assume there’s something to screw up."

"There will be," he said smoothly. "If I do this right."

She exhaled a soft laugh. Ballsy.

"So what’s your story, Damian Carter?"

He took a sip of his drink before answering. "Grew up in South Atlanta. Older brother got into some bad shit, so I learned early what not to do. Spent my twenties trying to outrun my own mistakes. Now I keep things simple."

Ava studied him. Men like him usually had ghosts.

"And what’s ‘simple’ for you?"

He met her eyes. "Honest people. Straight talk. No fake love."

That last part landed deep. No fake love.

She tilted her head, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. "So what happens now?"

"That depends," he said. "On whether you let me take you to dinner or send me packing."

Ava smirked, watching him for any sign of arrogance. There was none. Just patience. Confidence, but not entitlement.

She leaned in slightly. "One dinner."

Damian grinned. "You won’t regret it."

She arched a brow. "I never regret leaving when I need to."

His smirk widened. "That’s why I’m gonna make sure you don’t want to."

Damn.

Ava downed the rest of her whiskey and stood, grabbing her leather jacket. She wasn’t sure what she had just walked into, but one thing was certain.

She’d find out.

Ava stepped outside Revel, the night air thick with the scent of rain and city life. The pavement was slick, neon reflections shimmering like oil spills. Damian followed her out, hands in his pockets, his easy confidence intact.

"Where to?" he asked.

Ava shrugged. "You’re the one who insisted on dinner. Let’s see if you actually have good taste."

Damian smirked. "I know a spot."

He led her toward a sleek black Challenger, its engine humming like a caged animal. Ava smirked, running her fingers along the hood. Muscle cars. Predictable.

"You drive fast?" she asked.

Damian chuckled. "Only when necessary."

Ava slid into the passenger seat, testing the way the leather felt beneath her fingers. She didn’t trust easily, but something about this moment felt… right.

As he pulled onto the road, the low growl of the engine filling the silence, she stole a glance at him. Storm-gray eyes, jawline sharp enough to cut, hands steady on the wheel.

"Tell me something real," she said suddenly. "Something you don’t tell most people."

Damian didn’t hesitate. "I used to street race. Won a lot. Lost worse."

Ava lifted a brow. "Define ‘lost worse.’"

"Last race I ever did, I crashed," he said, voice even. "Almost killed myself. Had to relearn how to walk without a limp. Decided my life was worth more than proving a point."

Ava studied him. No bullshit. No bravado. Just the truth.

"Your turn," he said.

She hesitated. She wasn’t the type to spill her past to strangers, but something about the way he looked at her—**like he wasn’t waiting to judge, just to understand—**made her speak.

"I used to be engaged," she said finally.

Damian didn’t react, just waited for more.

"He was a liar. A manipulator. Made me feel like love was a trap, something that demanded sacrifice but never gave anything back."

"And?"

"And I left," she said simply. "Took my car, my pride, and never looked back."

Damian nodded, eyes still on the road. "Good."

Ava blinked. "That’s it?"

He shrugged. "What else is there? You saved yourself. That’s what matters."

Something in her chest tightened. Most people either pitied her or asked why she didn’t leave sooner. But Damian? He just accepted it.

She let that sit between them as the city lights blurred past.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a small soul food joint tucked into a corner of downtown Atlanta. The kind of place with vinyl booths, handwritten menus, and food that actually meant something.

Ava smirked. "Points for not taking me somewhere cliché."

Damian cut the engine and turned to her. "I don’t do surface-level. You should know that by now."

She held his gaze for a long moment. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t another waste of her time.

"Alright, Carter," she said, pushing open the door. "Let’s see if you can handle dinner with a woman like me."

Damian chuckled, following her inside.

"Oh, I can handle you," he said. "The real question is—can you handle me?"

The soul food joint had a warmth that contrasted with the night outside—dim lights, the scent of fried chicken and cornbread, and the kind of quiet hum that came from satisfied people eating good food. A few older folks sat in the back, playing dominoes, and the radio played an old-school R&B track that Ava recognized but hadn’t heard in years.

A waitress, a woman in her late fifties with silver braids and a knowing smile, approached them. "You finally brought somebody in here, huh?" she said to Damian.

Ava lifted an eyebrow. Finally?

Damian smirked. "Had to wait for the right company, Auntie Joy."

Auntie Joy turned to Ava, looking her up and down, then gave a small nod of approval. "Well, she ain’t run off yet. That’s a good sign."

Ava chuckled, sliding into the booth across from Damian. "Guess I’m still figuring out if he’s worth the time."

Auntie Joy laughed. "Oh, baby, trust me. If he’s sitting across from you, he already knows you’re worth it."

Ava didn’t let the words sink in too deep. She’d heard sweet talk before. The difference was, Damian wasn’t the one saying it.

They ordered—catfish for Ava, short ribs for Damian, mac and cheese on both plates because that wasn’t even a question.

Once they were alone, Damian leaned forward slightly. "So? What’s the verdict?"

"On what?"

He smirked. "Me."

Ava leaned back, swirling her glass of sweet tea. "Still deciding."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filler conversation. Ava wasn’t used to that. Most men filled empty spaces with empty words. Damian let things breathe.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, "I think people underestimate you."

Ava glanced up, fork halfway to her mouth. "How so?"

He took a sip of his drink, eyes steady on hers. "They see your face, your confidence, and they think they’ve got you figured out. But I don’t think most people know what you’ve survived to become this woman sitting across from me."

Ava’s grip tightened on her fork. It wasn’t often that someone saw her that clearly.

"And you do?" she asked, testing him.

Damian set his glass down. "Not yet. But I’d like to."

For a moment, Ava didn’t know what to say. The usual walls she kept up—the sharp tongue, the I-don’t-need-anyone armor—felt useless against him.

She let the silence stretch again, then finally said, "We’ll see."

Damian grinned like a man who knew he’d already won something. Not her heart. Not yet. But her attention.

And that?

That was rare.

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

Love in the Key of Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Twin Flames

 

Love in the Key of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

Celeste was halfway out of her seat when the first chord stopped her cold.

It wasn’t just any song. It was theirs.

Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Her body knew the melody before her mind caught up, before she even turned to confirm what she already felt deep in her bones.

And then—

His voice.

Rougher now, threaded with time, but unmistakable.

She turned slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter her.

Amir stood on stage, his head tilted toward the mic, his fingers drifting over the guitar strings with the same ease that once sent shivers down her spine. The low stage lights bathed his skin in amber, casting shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years.

Yet here he was.

Singing the song he wrote for her.

Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The air in the room thickened, the noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing.

Kai, her best friend, nudged her. “You okay?”

Celeste forced a nod, even as her chest tightened.

Because this wasn’t just a song.

This was him.

And the past was no longer buried.

Her body screamed it—her legs already shifting, fingers itching to grab her purse.

But she didn’t move.

Because she felt him coming.

The moment the song ended, Amir’s gaze swept the room, searching.

Finding.

Locking onto her.

Celeste inhaled sharply.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Then—he moved.

His guitar was handed off, his steps deliberate as he weaved through the crowd. People clapped him on the back, spoke his name, but his focus never wavered.

Within seconds, he was standing in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Amir exhaled.

“Cel.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was something heavier.

Her name had never been just her name with him.

She swallowed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same.” His voice was rough, but steady. “And yet…”

Here they were.

Here they always seemed to end up.

She glanced at the empty stage. “Still playing?”

He shrugged. “Only ever stopped when I lost the reason to.”

The words landed somewhere deep, cracking through a place she had spent years keeping sealed.

Her fingers curled into her palms. “I heard the song.”

Amir tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Did you?”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant.

“Do what?”

“Pretend it wasn’t about me.”

He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Celeste,” he murmured, “I haven’t even pretended to be over you.”

Her heart stumbled.

Because neither had she.

“Sing for me.”

The words left her before she could stop them.

Amir’s brows lifted slightly, his expression unreadable.

A challenge.

A test.

Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers brushed hers, a spark shot up her arm, igniting something deep in her chest.

She should have pulled away.

She didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

Without hesitation, Amir led her toward the stage.

The singer had just stepped off, but with one look from Amir, the band nodded.

This was his moment.

But somehow, it felt like theirs.

He settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like they were second nature.

Then—

The first note.

Soft. Unfinished.

A breath.

And then his voice—deep, warm, undeniable.

"Have you ever needed something so bad, you can’t sleep at night?"

The room stilled.

Celeste barely noticed the crowd anymore.

All she could hear was him.

All she could feel was every unspoken thing between them.

The song built, the melody swelling, wrapping around her like a memory too strong to ignore.

Her throat tightened.

Because she had needed him.

She had needed him so much it terrified her.

And she had walked away.

Telling herself it was for the best.

Telling herself that if they were truly meant for each other, the universe would find a way.

Now, a decade later, he was standing right in front of her.

And the universe was handing her a choice.

Again.

The last chord faded.

Silence.

Then, applause.

But Celeste didn’t move.

Neither did Amir.

He set the guitar down, gaze locked onto her.

She stood, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.

“Cel…”

Her name wasn’t just her name. It was a question. A plea.

And she—who had spent a decade pretending she didn’t miss him, didn’t need him—finally broke.

“Why didn’t you ever come after me?” she whispered.

Amir exhaled. “You left.”

“You let me.”

His jaw tensed. “What was I supposed to do, Cel? Chase you when you made it clear you wanted to go?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why did you?”

Her throat burned. “Because I didn’t think I could survive loving you.”

Silence.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You didn’t.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Because he was right.

She hadn’t survived it.

She had just spent ten years pretending she did.

Her hands trembled. Amir watched her, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You still love me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.

A beat.

Then—

"Have you ever stopped?"

She closed her eyes.

"No."

When she opened them, Amir was already reaching for her, pulling her in, pressing his forehead to hers.

And just like that—

The years between them fell away.

The past, the pain, the distance—none of it mattered.

Because some people—

Some loves—

Weren’t meant to be let go.