Chapter 4: "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'"

Lucas Confronts His Anger

The early morning light filters through the blinds, soft and quiet, but the silence in the apartment feels heavy. It’s the kind of stillness that creeps in when you’ve tried too hard to ignore what’s lurking beneath the surface. I stand in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, the hum of the machine the only sound breaking the quiet. My hand tightens around the edge of the counter, my mind already spinning before the day even begins.

The drawer with the letter is just a few feet away. I haven’t touched it since I wrote it. I thought sealing it would be the end of it, that writing those words would be enough. It should have been enough. But instead of feeling lighter, I feel like there’s something pressing down on me, and I can’t shake it.

I pour the coffee, taking a slow sip, but the warmth doesn’t reach me. There’s a tension under my skin, a dull thrum that won’t settle. I move through my usual routine—quick shower, getting dressed, sitting down at my desk—trying to pretend like it’s just another day. But as I sit there, staring at the sketches in front of me, I can feel it. The anger.

It starts as a low simmer, barely noticeable at first, but it’s there, bubbling just beneath the surface. I can’t focus. The lines on the page blur, rigid and sharp, mocking me with their precision. I grip the pencil tighter, but it doesn’t help. The harder I press, the worse it gets.

My thoughts keep drifting back to her. To Jessica. To the way things ended. I thought I was past this. I thought I had buried it deep enough. But it’s like the letter cracked something open, and now everything is spilling out.

How could she leave like that? The question echoes in my head, over and over, like a broken record. I’m not even sure who I’m angry at anymore—her, for walking away, or me, for still caring. It’s been months. I should be over it by now. But here I am, still letting her take up space in my head, still feeling the sting of betrayal.

I look down at the sketch, the harsh lines staring back at me, cold and unfeeling. Just like how she looked at me that last night. The pencil snaps in my hand, and I realize I’ve been gripping it too hard. I throw it down, the frustration bubbling up, threatening to boil over.

I grab the sketch and crumple it into a ball, tossing it aside like all the others. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. The anger just keeps building, like a pressure cooker with no release. I stand up, pacing the room, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.

I should have said more. I should have fought harder. Or maybe I shouldn’t have fought at all. Maybe I should’ve seen the signs sooner, known that she was pulling away before it was too late. But no. I trusted her. I believed her when she said we’d figure it out. And then, just like that, she was gone.

Damn it.

I grab another sheet of paper, sitting back down at the desk, trying to push the thoughts away, to focus. But it’s useless. The lines I draw are stiff, lifeless, just like every other sketch I’ve tried to finish since she left. I can’t create. I can’t move forward. I’m stuck. Trapped in this loop of anger and regret that I can’t escape.

The letter is still in that drawer, waiting. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe writing it wasn’t enough. Maybe I need to burn it. Or send it. Or do something, anything, to break this cycle.

But right now, all I feel is this anger. This gnawing, burning anger that won’t leave me alone.

I crumple the new sketch and throw it across the room, the paper bouncing off the wall and landing on the floor in a heap with the others.

I sit there, my breath coming in slow, shallow bursts, my heart pounding in my chest. The room feels too small, too quiet, the silence pressing down on me like a weight I can’t lift.

I thought I was past this. I thought I had moved on. But it turns out, I’ve just been pretending. And now, I don’t know how to stop pretending.

The anger is all I have left.

Mia Stands Up to Mark

The office is alive with the usual buzz, the steady hum of conversations drifting in from the hall, the soft click of keyboards filling the air. My desk is a mess of notes and drafts, but that’s normal. The framed articles on the walls are a reminder of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve built for myself. This space is mine, and I’ve made it my own. But all that calm shatters when I hear the knock on the door.

I glance up, and there he is—Mark, standing in the doorway like he’s just dropped by for a friendly chat, that smug smile plastered on his face. My stomach twists, an involuntary reaction I hate. Of all people, he’s the last person I expected—or wanted—to see today.

“Mia,” he says, stepping into my office without waiting for an invitation. He leans against my desk, like he belongs here, like nothing’s changed.

I sit up a little straighter, setting down the draft I was reviewing. “Mark,” I say, keeping my voice steady, though inside, I’m already on edge. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, flashing that easy grin he used to use when he thought he could charm his way out of anything. “Just thought I’d stop by, see how you’re doing.”

My pulse quickens, but not in the way it used to when I saw him. Now it’s all frustration, a tightening in my chest as I watch him stand there, acting like he hasn’t caused so much damage. “I’m fine,” I say, keeping my tone clipped. “Busy, actually.”

He doesn’t take the hint. Of course, he doesn’t. “You’ve been doing great things here,” he says, glancing at the framed articles. “I always knew you’d go far.”

I feel the old anger start to bubble up, the kind I used to push down, used to swallow because I didn’t want to rock the boat. But not today. Not anymore.

He’s talking, but I’m barely listening. All I can think about is how many times he stood there just like this, manipulating me with his words, his charm, making me feel like I was the one who needed to change, the one who was never quite enough. But I see through it now. Every smooth word, every casual glance—none of it works on me anymore.

“So,” he says, his voice smooth, leaning in a little closer, “how about we grab coffee sometime? Catch up properly?”

I blink, disbelief settling in. Is he serious? He thinks he can just walk back into my life like nothing happened, like he didn’t lie and cheat and break me down until I couldn’t even recognize myself? The nerve of him standing here, acting like it’s all water under the bridge.

I set my pen down, my patience wearing thin. “Mark,” I say, my voice firm now, “what do you really want?”

His smile falters for just a second, but he recovers quickly, leaning back with that infuriating casualness. “What do you mean? I’m just—”

“No.” I cut him off, my tone sharper than it’s ever been with him. “You don’t get to just drop by, pretend like everything’s fine, and act like we’re still friends or whatever you’re trying to pull here.”

He stares at me, clearly not expecting this. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, but I don’t let it show. I’m not backing down.

“Mia, I’m just trying to—”

“I don’t care what you’re trying to do,” I say, cutting him off again, my voice steady now, strong. “I’m done. I’m done with you, with the way you used to make me feel, with all of it. You don’t get to walk into my life and act like nothing’s happened. Not anymore.”

His eyes widen slightly, and for the first time, I see a flicker of something I haven’t seen before—surprise, maybe even respect. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need his approval.

“So, whatever this is,” I say, gesturing to the space between us, “it’s over. I’ve moved on. And I need you to do the same.”

For a second, he just stands there, unsure of what to say. The confidence he walked in with is gone, replaced with something smaller, something I don’t have time to care about. Finally, he nods, taking a step back. “Alright, Mia. I get it.”

I watch him turn and leave, his steps slower than when he came in. The door closes behind him, and the tension in the room dissolves like a cloud lifting.

For a moment, I just sit there, letting the silence settle around me. And then, slowly, I feel it—a sense of relief, of pride. I did it. I stood up to him. I didn’t let him control the narrative. I took back my story.

I lean back in my chair, a small smile creeping onto my face. For the first time in a long time, I feel free.

Lucas Receives a Message from Jessica

The office is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like the air’s heavy, pressing down on everything. Sunlight spills through the windows, casting harsh shadows across the papers scattered on my desk. I try to focus, to drown myself in the work piled up in front of me, but it’s not working. I’m stuck.

My thoughts keep circling back to her. To Jessica. To that stupid letter I wrote. I’ve tried to let it go. I’ve tried to move on, to bury the anger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for months, but it’s like every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, her face sneaks back into my mind, and it’s like no time has passed at all.

I stare at the sketches in front of me—rigid lines, unfinished ideas, just like me. It’s frustrating, how much space she still takes up in my head. How much I still care, even though I hate that I do.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. I need a break. I need to stop thinking about her, about what we had, about how it all fell apart. But that’s easier said than done.

The sudden buzz of my phone breaks through the silence, and I glance down, not expecting much. Probably just an email or a message from Ollie about another work lunch. But then I see it.

Jessica.

Her name stares back at me from the screen, and for a moment, everything stops. My heart lurches, and I freeze, my mind going blank. It’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room, and the only thing left is that name, glowing on my phone like a beacon I’ve been trying to avoid.

Why now? Why after all this time? A thousand thoughts hit me at once. What does she want? Is she reaching out to apologize? To reopen old wounds? I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to find out. But the curiosity, the need to know, is overwhelming.

My hand hovers over the phone, my fingers twitching. I should ignore it. I should put the phone down and go back to work. But I can’t. I need to know. I need to see what she’s written, even though I know it’s a bad idea.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

My mind races, my thoughts tangled in a mess of anger and confusion. What could she possibly have to say? I’d convinced myself that writing the letter gave me closure, that I’d taken control of the narrative. But now, just seeing her name, everything I thought I’d buried comes rushing back, faster than I can process.

I sit there for a minute, just staring at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. I could delete it, pretend I never saw it. But I won’t. I can’t.

With a deep breath, I swipe open the message. My eyes skim over the words, and I feel my chest tighten. Whatever I’m reading... it’s not what I expected.

I tense, the anger flaring up again, but I keep reading, my jaw clenching. The words blur for a second, and all I can feel is this sinking weight in my gut.

And then... nothing. I’m frozen, sitting there, staring at the screen.

Sophie’s Concern for Mia

The apartment feels... different tonight. The usual warmth and coziness of my space is still there—the soft throw on the couch, the familiar scent of the lavender candle—but it feels darker, heavier. I can’t quite shake the tension clinging to the air, the weight pressing down on me. I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, pretending to be engrossed in a book, but the words blur together. My mind is miles away.

The knock at the door startles me, and when I open it, Sophie’s standing there with that warm smile of hers, the one that always makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay. But tonight, I don’t feel okay. I’m trying to hide it, but I know she can sense something’s off.

“Hey,” she says softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Just thought I’d drop by. I was in the neighborhood.”

I nod, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Sure, come in. I was just... reading.”

Sophie glances at the book in my hand and raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Totally believe that.” She drops her bag on the chair and sinks into the couch beside me, her eyes scanning my face. I can feel her watching me, noticing the little things—the way I’ve been fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve, the way I haven’t really looked at her since she walked in.

“What’s up, Mia?” she asks, her voice gentle but probing. “You seem... off. Everything okay?”

I keep my gaze on the book, pretending to be interested in it again. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long week at work, you know?”

Sophie doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push. Not yet. “Sure, I get it. You’ve been killing it at the magazine lately. But you know you can tell me if something’s bothering you, right?”

I almost say it. The words are right there, hovering on the edge of my lips. I could tell her about the strange letters, about the calls that have been making my heart race with a mix of fear and confusion. I could tell her that my past—the one I’ve been trying so hard to leave behind—might be catching up with me. Sophie would listen. She’d understand.

But then I stop myself. What good would it do to drag her into this? She doesn’t need to be part of my mess, my past. I take a deep breath and let the words fade away.

“I’m really okay,” I say, forcing a little more conviction into my voice this time. “Just need some rest, I think.”

Sophie leans back, studying me for a moment, her expression softening. “Alright,” she says, but there’s a note of disbelief in her tone. “But if you need to talk, about anything, you know I’m here, right? No judgment. You don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

I glance over at her, and for a moment, I feel a surge of gratitude. She’s always been there, always offering that unwavering support without pushing too hard. I want to tell her everything, to let it all out, but the thought of revisiting that part of my life makes my chest tighten.

“I know,” I say quietly. “Thanks, Soph. I appreciate it.”

She gives me a small smile, the kind that says she’s not convinced, but she won’t press me on it tonight. “Okay. But I mean it. Call me. Anytime.”

I nod, and we sit there in the silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Sophie doesn’t push any further, and for that, I’m grateful. She changes the subject, talking about her day, about a funny thing that happened at work, and I listen, letting the sound of her voice calm the tension in the room.

But even as we talk, I can feel it—the heaviness of the secret I’m carrying. The mystery of the calls, the letters, and the part of my past I’ve been trying so hard to forget. It lingers, just beneath the surface, waiting.

Sophie’s laughter fills the room, breaking through the quiet, and for a second, I almost forget. Almost.

But not quite.

Natalie Notices a Change in the Secret Admirer’s Gestures

The office is buzzing with energy, as usual. Papers are strewn across my desk—event plans, contracts, sketches of floral arrangements waiting to be finalized. The sun pours through the windows, filling the room with a warm glow that matches the excitement of the day. I’ve got back-to-back meetings, vendors to call, and a wedding to finalize by this afternoon. It’s chaos, but the kind of chaos I thrive in.

I’m flipping through the day’s mail when I spot it—another small envelope with no return address. My heart skips a beat, and a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Another one. I pause, setting the rest of the mail aside, my fingers grazing the edge of the envelope before I tear it open.

The note inside is handwritten again, but this time it’s different. More personal. The familiar initial, A, still signs off at the bottom, but what catches me off guard is the reference to something so specific, so... me.

“Your attention to detail is what makes your work stand out. You notice the little things that others overlook—the way sunlight falls just right at a venue, or how a bouquet can brighten an entire room. It’s what makes you extraordinary. Thank you for making every moment count.”

-A.

I stare at the words, my smile softening into something more thoughtful. This isn’t just a generic compliment. Whoever A is, they know me. They really know me. The way the note talks about my work, my attention to detail—it’s like they’ve seen me in action, like they’ve been watching. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that feels... personal. Intimate, even.

I can’t help but wonder who it could be. Someone close? Someone I’ve worked with?

“Another one?” Jenny’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s leaning in the doorway, a knowing grin on her face. “You’re practically glowing, Nat. What’s this one say?”

I laugh, holding the note up for her to read. “It’s sweet, right? But this time... I don’t know, it feels different. Like they actually know me.”

Jenny’s eyes widen as she reads, and when she’s done, she raises an eyebrow. “Okay, yeah, this isn’t just a random admirer. This is someone who’s paying attention.” She pauses, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “Any ideas who it could be?”

I shake my head, but I can’t shake the feeling that I should know. “No clue. I mean, it could be anyone. Someone from work, maybe? Or a client?”

“Maybe,” Jenny says, still grinning. “But I’m betting it’s someone a little closer than that. This feels... personal.”

I nod, the note still resting in my hand. “Yeah, it does.” My mind is racing through possibilities, replaying recent conversations, trying to recall if anyone has dropped subtle hints, but nothing clicks. Not yet.

Jenny gives me a playful nudge. “Well, whoever it is, they’ve got good taste. You better keep an eye out for any more notes, because this secret admirer is stepping up their game.”

I tuck the note into my drawer, feeling a strange mix of excitement and curiosity. The mystery is starting to feel real, and I can’t help but wonder what’s next. Who’s behind this? And why now?

As I get back to work, the thought lingers in the back of my mind. The note was more than just a compliment—it was a connection. And I’m starting to feel like I’m not as alone in this mystery as I thought.

Whoever A is, they know more about me than I expected. And for the first time, I want to know just as much about them.

Grace and Susan Discuss Lucas

The warmth of the afternoon sun spills through the windows, casting a golden glow across the room. Grace’s living room is the epitome of comfort—soft, well-worn couches, family photos lining the walls, and the faint, sweet smell of something baking in the kitchen. I sit across from Susan, my oldest friend, cradling a cup of tea between my hands, but my thoughts are far from the cozy atmosphere around us.

“I don’t know what to do, Susan,” I finally say, breaking the quiet that’s settled between us. “Lucas is... different these days. More distant, you know? It’s like he’s here, but not really. He’s always working, and when he’s not, he’s distracted.”

Susan nods, her face thoughtful as she takes a slow sip of her tea. She doesn’t rush to respond—she never does. That’s one of the things I love about her. She listens, really listens.

“I think he’s still hurting over Jessica,” I continue, staring down at the swirling liquid in my cup. “It’s been months, but I can tell he hasn’t moved on. He’s not dealing with it, Susan. Not in a healthy way.”

Susan sets her cup down on the table in front of her, leaning back into the cushions. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “Lucas has always been the type to hold things in, to push down his feelings until he can’t anymore.”

I nod, feeling the weight of those words. It’s true—Lucas has always been like that, even when he was a kid. He’d hide his pain, his anger, until it became too much to bear. And now, after Jessica... well, I’m afraid of what happens if he keeps bottling it up.

“I don’t know how to help him,” I admit, my voice cracking a little. “He won’t talk to me about it, and I don’t want to push him too hard. But I’m scared he’s just burying everything inside. He can’t keep going like this.”

Susan reaches out, placing a hand on mine. “You’re right to be concerned,” she says gently. “But sometimes, people have to come to terms with their feelings in their own time. Lucas is hurting, yes, but he’s also angry. And that anger... it’s holding him back. It’s keeping him from moving forward.”

Her words hit me hard, because they feel true. I’ve seen the flashes of it—the frustration, the bitterness in his eyes when he talks about the past. He’s angry at Jessica, but maybe even more so at himself. And until he lets that go, he’ll be stuck.

Susan leans back, her gaze thoughtful. “You know, I went through something similar a long time ago. After the divorce. I didn’t realize how much anger I was carrying around until it started to bleed into everything else in my life. I didn’t think I was angry—I thought I was just... dealing with it. But that anger, it was eating me up inside.”

I look at her, feeling a pang of empathy. I remember how hard that time was for her, how closed off she became. But now, seeing her here, calm and centered, I know she found a way through it.

“What helped?” I ask softly.

She smiles, a little sad but wise. “Time. And finally letting myself feel what I was too afraid to admit. It wasn’t just about moving on—it was about forgiving myself, too.”

Her words settle in the room, heavy with meaning. Maybe that’s what Lucas needs. Maybe he’s not just angry at Jessica—maybe he’s angry at himself for not seeing it sooner, for not fighting harder, or for caring too much. And until he deals with that, no amount of work or distraction will help.

“I just wish I could do more,” I murmur, feeling the weight of helplessness on my shoulders. “He’s my son, Susan. I want to protect him, but I can’t... I can’t fix this for him.”

Susan squeezes my hand, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re already doing more than you know, Grace. Just by being here. He knows you’re here, even if he doesn’t show it. And when the time is right, he’ll come to you.”

I nod, trying to let her words sink in. I want to believe that. I want to believe that Lucas will open up, that he’ll find a way to let go of the anger and the pain. But for now, I’ll give him space. I’ll wait for the right moment.

But when that moment comes, I’ll be ready. I’ll be here for him, just like I’ve always been.

And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.

Mia Receives a Message Related to Her Secret Past

The soft glow of the lamp casts a warm, golden hue over the room. My apartment feels peaceful tonight, calm. I’ve been curled up on the couch for the past hour, scribbling in my journal, trying to wind down after a long day. The air is quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you feel like the world outside doesn’t exist for a moment.

I’m mid-sentence when my phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the silence. I glance at it, expecting the usual—maybe a message from Sophie or an email alert—but when I see the screen, my heart stops for a split second.

An unknown number.

I freeze, the journal forgotten in my lap, my fingers hovering over the phone. For a second, I consider ignoring it. It’s probably nothing. But something gnaws at the back of my mind, a sense of unease I can’t shake. Slowly, I reach for the phone, swiping the screen open.

The message pops up, and as I read it, the calm I’d built around me crumbles.

“You thought you could leave it behind, didn’t you? But some things don’t stay buried.”

My breath catches in my throat, my fingers tightening around the phone. My heart pounds in my chest, louder and louder, drowning out the silence in the room. I read the message again, hoping I’d misread it, hoping it doesn’t say what I think it says.

But there it is. Clear as day.

Whoever sent this knows. They know something I’ve kept locked away for years. Something I thought I’d left behind, buried so deep that no one could ever reach it again.

How? Why now? My mind races with questions, spiraling out of control. I thought I was done with this. I thought I’d moved on, that my past couldn’t touch me anymore. But now... now it’s back, lurking like a shadow I can’t escape.

I stand, pacing the room, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. What does this mean? My chest tightens, a familiar knot of fear curling in my stomach. I thought I was safe. I thought I had control. But this message—it feels like a crack in the armor I’ve built around myself.

I sit back down on the couch, staring at the screen, the message glaring back at me, mocking me with its simple words. Whoever this is, they know too much. And I have no idea how far they’re willing to go.

My mind spirals further, replaying the events I’ve tried so hard to forget, the part of my life I’ve worked tirelessly to keep hidden. I close my eyes, willing the memories away, but they push back to the surface, vivid and unforgiving.

I can’t go back there. I won’t.

But what if I don’t have a choice? What if this is just the beginning?

I grip the phone tighter, my hands shaking now. I need to figure out who this is. I need to know what they want, how they know, and—more importantly—what they’re going to do next. But first, I need to protect myself. I can’t let this consume me again.

The message sits there, a dark reminder of a life I thought I’d left behind. And suddenly, my cozy apartment doesn’t feel so safe anymore.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm, to think rationally. But the truth is, I’m terrified.

As the room falls into silence again, I stare at the phone, knowing that this is far from over.