Ring. Ring. Ring.

I jerked awake at the shrill cry of my ringtone, blindly reaching toward the dashboard of my car. The sun was cruelly blinding me through the windshield and my head throbbed with an unsettling ache, as I squinted at the phone screen.

“Hello?” I croaked out.

“Dr Cole? Are you okay? Where are you?” Mrs. Kennedy’s concerned voice sank into my ear, making me slump back into the seat with a sigh. It took me a couple of seconds to find my equilibrium.

“I…uh…I’m fine. Are you okay? What happened?” I glanced at the time on the screen and my eyes widened. “Shit, I’m sorry. I…I’ll be there in an hour, or two. Are there any patients already? Could you tell them I am running late, or stuck in a traffic or something? Just tell them I’ll reschedule—”

“Ian…calm down,” she softly said, cutting me off mid panic mode. I instantly clamped my lips together. “You sound pretty stressed. Everything alright?”

Pressing a palm against my temple, I dropped my head against the steering wheel, heaving out a difficult breath. Nothing was right. And I was sure it wouldn’t be for a long, long time.

“I’m fine. Can I just call-in sick today?” For the first time in three and half years.

She chuckled, and I could almost imagine the sad smile on her face. “Dr Cole, I guess you’re forgetting who’s the boss here.”

A sigh left my lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

She told me to take care of myself because I sounded actually sick, before hanging up. As the line went dead, I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and closed my eyes, feeling the warm steering's leather against my forehead.

I could not bring myself to open my eyes and look outside the window.

My car was parked outside my…well, Maeve’s house. She was there, just a few steps away, maybe curled in her bed, or snuggled onto the couch. Or maybe she wasn’t.

That was, if she didn’t make it home after I abandoned her in the middle of the park last night.

A nauseatic bitterness spread through my mouth as I straightened on the seat and fisted my hands on my sides. I wanted to bang my head against a wall, or run my car off a bridge.

I was an asshole. An utterly insensitive piece of shit.

If someone was to come and punch me in the face right now, without any particular reason, I would gladly take it.

Hell, I’d lend my other cheek. Because I deserved it.

Never in my life before did I feel so disgusted by myself.

I had left her there. In my blinding rage, I had left Maeve alone, in that disserted place, late at night.

After some mindless driving and stifled screams, when a few of my remaining braincells had revived, I drove back, but Maeve was nowhere in sight.

She was gone.

If that didn’t make me a heartless insensible jerk, I didn’t know what would.

No amount of rage or hurt or excuse could justify my actions yesterday. Maybe it was the blank expression on Maeve’s face. Or the lack of a sense of guilt I could point out. Or the absence of any kind of defense from her against my tantrums. There were many reasons why I had done what I did, but none of them strong enough to hold me firm on a single decision.

One night of sudden Maeve-History explosion could have left me brain-dead for a few hours, but this goddamning voice in my chest had overpowered every single thing that tried to rationalize the reasons why I should stay the fuck away from her.

And staying away from her was next to impossible.

Because nothing could hurt more than having to force yourself to stay away from that one person you love with everything you have. Having to count every heartbeat to pass the time without them. When their body isn’t against yours, when their hand is not in yours, when their eyes are not looking at you.

But the pain intensifies when you realize why. Because you hurt them to protect your own feelings. You blame them for everything, even for things that had nothing to do with them.

Why? To protect yourself.

When one already knows the pain of heartbreak, he will go out of his way to not go through it again.

Olivia was the pain I remembered. Maeve was the pain I didn’t want to go through again.

My eyes slowly peeled open, then shifted out of the window, toward the house. Even if I knocked on that door—or barged in— I wasn’t positive I could utter a single word to her.

I was ashamed of what I did. I was still mad at her. I was afraid of what I might find in those beautiful brown eyes. I was fucking mortified if every single emotion I was able to draw out of her, had disappeared from her eyes overnight.

Worse, what if she already made up her mind to hate me?

Then I would really have to find a bridge.

“Fuck,” my fist slammed against the steering involuntarily, the burning it left feeling unexpectedly good.

I slammed it again. Punched. Slammed again. Punched again. Until my whole hand was red and heated. Almost numb.

I stared at my open palm. Felt the burning of my skin, trying to relate it to Maeve’s situation.

Everything led back to her, didn’t it?

Maybe this was what self-harm victims felt after hurting themselves. A following numbness after excruciating pain. Because there was a limit to how much a human could bear pain—physically and mentally. Once that limit was exceeded, you'd feel nothing. No pain would be enough to prickle your nerves.

Some people experimented for a greater source of harm, to try and feel something. These were the cases when most of the times victims ended up dea—

My head whipped into the direction of the house, and a shock jolted down my spine.

“Fuck’s sake,” I opened the door and jumped out.Without bothering to lock the car, I hurried across the road to the house and up the front porch.

It took every single strand of restraint left in me not to directly unlock and barge inside. But I couldn’t do that.

Not anymore.

I knocked(pounded?) on the door, in a less civilized, but a lot more humanly manner.

If Maeve had done something awful, if she had hurt herself, if she had slipped back into that dark hole because I had made her feel worthless, I would never be able to forgive myself.

I knocked again. And a few more times. No response.

Is she not home? Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk to anyone. Especially me.

But that was all I wanted. To talk to her. I needed to hear her voice or my own thoughts would drive me insane.

“Maeve?” My palm flattened on the door as I drew in a breath, and disappointment laced through me when I couldn’t hint any vanilla scent in the air. “Let me in, Maeve. Please,” The last word slipped from my lips into a soft mumbled.

I know I have hurt you. So hurt me back. Do whatever you want with me. But please, don’t shut me out.

If my loud pounding and yells hadn’t reached her ears, that silent message surely did. Because soon after, the door opened and a pair of eyes—

A pair of narrowed gray eyes met mine, with a never-ending frown pinching two dark eyebrows together.

“Ian,” Michael said, his voice clipped and monotonous. He looked like he had just woken up.

“What are you doing here?” My stifled anger snuck out in my tone before I could hide it back in, and Michael’s furrowed brows drew back in response.

His head gave a little tilt. “I could ask you the same.”

His frown crawled onto my face now.

“This is my house.” I told him, trying to peek inside over his shoulder, but his huge body fitted across the doorframe perfectly.

“Last time I checked, landlords weren’t allowed to barge into rented houses when and ever they wished.”

Landlord? Was that what I was to Maeve now? Was that what she told Michael I was? A fucking landlord?

I was running out of patience. Faster than I could manage it.

“The last time I checked,” I said. “I could see my girlfriend when and ever I wished.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, for a split of second, something unsettling flew across his face. Too fast for me to catch. But it closely resembled irritation.

“Whoever taught you how to take care of your girlfriend," he weighed the word with a bitterness. "might have missed a few important points.” His face hardened. “For example, how to have patience.”

There was that word again.

Something told me that he was referring to my recklessness last night, and as much as I agreed with him, it wasn’t his fucking business.

Before my brain could send an unpleasant retort flying out of my mouth, I filled my lungs with air, pinching the bridge of my nose to keep my calm.

Nothing is solved with anger, Cole. Everything is worsened under the impression of rage. I repeated quietly.

When I looked up again, Michael was still standing where he was, looking at me with a blank look. As usual, his face didn’t give away whatever was on his mind.

“I need to see her,” my voice fell against my will, coming out weaker than necessary. But I didn’t care. What I cared for right now was to see Maeve. To make sure she was fine.

Michael’s throat moved with a gulp, and jaws clenched, but he didn’t make any effort to step back and let me in, or step out and drive me away.

My fists clenched. Goddamn it.

Before I could launch myself at him and let my earlier temper take over my actions, a soft, hoarse voice crawled into my ears and settled into my stomach.

“Michael, who is it?”

At the inquiry, Michael stepped away from the door to a side, displaying a sleepy Maeve, bathed in the golden sunlight seeping in through the open windows. Even amidst the chaos in my head and the flutters in my stomach, I couldn’t help but point out how beautiful she looked with her messy hair and the cute flower-print pj’s. Although the highlight of her face, her eyes, were squinted and puffed.

And I could tell it wasn’t because of sleep.

Her lips peeled open when her eyes met mine into a silent mumble that didn’t reach my ears. Her chin trembled softly before she clenched her jaws and broke her eyes away from me. I didn’t like that. Not a bit.

Look at me, Maeve. Please look at me.

She didn’t. Instead, she turned on her heels and headed toward the kitchen.

I didn’t know why my eyes cut to Michael’s. Maybe because I was searching for my best friend behind that stoic face, someone who would have advised me in such a situation and tell me how to unfuck what I fucked up.

Michael blinked at me, then blew out an irritated breath. As soon as he gave me a soft nod toward the kitchen, my feet moved on instinct and didn’t stop until I was crossing the kitchen threshold.

Maeve was seated at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of water. When she noticed me through the corner of her eyes, she placed the glass down, and pressed her palms against her eyes, as if just looking at me was painful.

“If you’re here to continue from where you dropped yesterday…” a soft breath left her lips. “Please make it quick.”

My chest busted with pain anew at her words, and I managed not to fold over. This was probably what she felt last night when I left her. A mixture of indifference and heartache.

I moved forward and dropped myself on the chair adjacent to hers, my fingers twitching across my knees to reach forward and tuck her into my arms.

“Maeve,” her name on my tongue was a soothing to my ache. She brought down her hands and leaned back on the chair, eyes tracing random objects on the table. Still not looking up. “Please, say something.”

“I thought you were doing all the talking.” She said, as casually as I had ever heard her speak.

I was doing all the talking. Ever since I parked my car outside the park last night with her, then left in it, alone, I was the one talking. And it was just now that I realized I had not heard a single word from her.

All she did was listen to me go on and on about how much I was hurt.

Unable to help myself, I reached forward and covered my palm over fidgeting fingers, feeling the warmth of her skin instantly melting the ice which had begun accumulating around my heart. Maeve tensed. “Done talking. I’m here to listen to you now.”

“About what?” her eyes were painfully void of any expressions as they shifted to mine.

“Anything,” I tried to read her through her eyes, something I was so used to doing with ease. But the curtain was drawn now, and she was hiding behind it. Again.

“Is there something particular you wish to hear from me?” the tone of her voice closely resembled the look on her face. Impassive. I searched and searched for something, anything, that I could say to her, which would take us back to how we were two days back. When I failed to answer, Maeve withdrew her hand from my hold and pushed back from the chair. “If not, please excuse me. I’d really like to get ready for work.”

Something snapped inside me. Like an invisible string holding my senses together.

Get ready for work…

“You’d still go there?” I heard myself ask before I could stop it. I couldn’t stop it. “Even after all that happened, you'd still go to that place?”

Maeve threw me another unbothered look. “It’s my job. I have to.”

My hands balled into fists and my breathing picked up an unsteady pace. She was still going to that place. Willingly. With not even an ounce of guilt or regret.

Before she could move past me, I stood up, blocking her way to the door. Maeve stared at my chest, and kept her eyes there. Not even sparing me a single glance.

“You won’t.”

Now, she looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you will not go to that place again.” My throat moved with a heavy gulp as I tried not to give up against the pained expression on her face. But it was the only reaction I had managed to get from her since last night. It gave me hope that my Maeve was still there somewhere, waiting to surface.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to order me around,” her eyes bore into mine as she moved past me.

But I grabbed her wrist before she could make it to the door and spun her around. Her body pushed into my arms, and settled in perfectly. As she always did.

Wet fit together, perfectly.

“You won’t, Maeve. I wouldn’t let you,” my arms locked her and I pressed her to me, feeling the familiar heat from her body seeping into mine.

Maeve pushed against my chest with—what I could tell was—barely any force.

“Let me go, Ian.”

“Never.”

She pushed with a new force, twisting and squirming in my hold, before finally giving up with a sigh. Her palms flattened against my chest, then slowly raised her eyes to mine. “Ian please—”

“I can’t let you go. Not away from me. Not like this. And definitely not to that place.” Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead against her.

I could not lose her. Not again.

Maeve’s fingers clutched the fabric of my sweater between her fingers, as she breathed, “Why?”

“Because the thought of another man gawking at you or raking his eyes over your body is like a stab to my chest,” I said. Maeve sniffled softly. “I can’t picture you dancing in a bar full of hungry eyes which aren’t mine. I can't picture you with anyone other than me. Because it fucking hurts. And for what?” My grip tightened around her. “Fuck, Maeve, if it’s just the money, I would write off everything in my name to you. Would that stop you from going to that place again?”

Maeve stilled in my arms. I could not hear her breathing. I could not hear her sniffle. Her fingers uncurled from my sweater and she pushed way from my forehead.

What I saw in her eyes was enough to make me crumble to the ground.

Regret. Defeat. Guilt.

Everything I wanted to see in her face last night. Everything that didn't feel as satisfying right now.

“You wanted to hear what I had to say?” a single tear rolled down her cheeks, but her face remained stoic. “I want you to leave.”

“Maeve—”

“No, Ian. You’ve said enough and I’ve heard enough.” She pushed away from me again, and this time my arms unlocked from around her on their own. She stepped back and brought her arms around to hug herself, eyes focused on the floor. Blinking back her tears and blowing out a quick breath, she spoke. “I’m sorry I did not tell you. I’m sorry you had to hear about it from someone else. I’m sorry I wasn’t...I wasn't brave enough to accept that nothing could change the fact that I was a...prostitute.” Her bloodshot eyes found mine. “Isn’t that what Devin told you?”

I felt like someone had knocked the living breath out of me, and I stumbled back onto the nearest chair.

Did he call her to mock her about our situation? Did I prove him right?

As if reading my mind, she answered, "He rang me up last night. Seemed pretty pleased with himself. I connected the dots."

I tried to unhear whatever Maeve had said, in hopes of not losing the last string of hope. But Maeve could not, or did not, take the hint, and continued.

“I’m sorry our past followed us here, Ian. I swear I did not know you were Michael’s friend until two months after our marriage. I did not mean to come back. In fact, I stayed away for five years. Out of your sight. Because I did not want you to remember me by…what I was.”

“Maeve, stop—”

“But I’m not sorry that we met again, that I felt welcomed in your life. That I felt more than just a girl from the club you fucked.”

My shoulders shook as I buried my face in my hands. Hot tears burned down my cheeks. I tried to push aside everything she said. Tried to brush it off. But I couldn’t.

Why? Because when she was around, everything became her.

“I’m not sorry that I felt loved by you, Ian. That I…I too....” Maeve’s fingers buried in my hair and she stroked my head in an oh-so-familiar manner, which pushed more, fresh tears out of my eyes. But even before I could react, her touch was gone.

Silently footsteps faded away from me, out of the door, then her distant voice spoke. “Can you give me a ride?”

After a beat, Michael responded. “I’ll wait outside.”

There was nothing in sight with my eyes closed, but even in that darkness, I could see her face; flushed and pained. Even in the haunting silence, I could hear her voice; low and penetrating. Even in the emptiness in my chest, I could feel that voice, trying to break free and reach out to her.

But it was too late, wasn’t it?