Then I bend forward again and write one more line.
If you still have any patience left for me, you know where to find me.
Love, Raul
I had to end it with "Love" after watching Carl's whole interaction.
I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into the envelope like it is fragile glass.
My hands are shaking a little. Not much, but enough to notice.
I seal it, writeOliviaon the front, and stare at the simple curve of her name.
What now?
The weight in my chest doesn't lift. It just shifts, settled deeper somehow. Like I've finally admitted something to myself that I've been running from for months.
Carl is still humming happily across the room, lost in his own little world. His letter from his girl has turned him into a lovesick fool, and part of me envies that.
At least he got an answer. A yes.
I don't even know what I'm asking for. Just… a chance to try again. To be the man she deserved instead of the one I've been.
I sink back onto my cot, staring at the empty notepad.
The regret isn't gone. But for the first time, it feels like something I can carry.
CHAPTER 20
RAUL
…20 years old
A group of four ladies approaches Scarlet. I've been dodging Olivia for weeks now, ever since she showed up at my place.
Ever since we crossed that line from casual friends to something much more… intimate.
It isn't regret that keeps me away. Not exactly. But what the hell am I supposed to say to her now?
She probably thinks the worst of me. And why wouldn't she?
I shut her out. Just like I shut everyone out. This is no different.
After she left that morning, she texted me. Twice.
I couldn't bring myself to respond. Too busy licking my wounds after letting someone see parts of me I'd never shown anyone new.
Part of me wishes she'd reach out again. Just so I'd know I meant something.
But even if she does, I can't promise I'll answer. What would I even say? That I know I'm a piece of shit who deserves to bealone? I don't want her pity. And I sure as hell am not going to beg.
I feel her stare from inside the club from time to time. But I never look over my shoulder. And if I have to glance that way for work, I keep my eyes down. Can't stomach the pained look. Or worse — the annoyed one.
So I run. Avoid. Do anything to stay safe.
Ever since my mother died, people have pitied me. Teachers, friends, their parents, even the cashier at the corner store. Everyone.
And I fucking hate it. Makes my stomach turn. Makes me feel weak. Vulnerable. Like that one thing defines me as less than a man.