Strings and Schemes

Chapter 21

Zayn exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Raina..."

"No, let me finish," I interrupt, taking a step closer. "I pushed you away. I treated you like a game because that's what I knew. That's what was safe."

I feel the sting of tears in my throat, but I swallow them down.

"But you weren't a game. You were never a game."

Zayn looks at me, and I can tell he's seeing every version of me all at once—the guarded girl, the reckless one, the woman standing before him now, stripped down to her truth.

"I don't know what to do with this," he finally admits, voice raw. "With us."

I nod, because I don't either.

But for the first time, I think maybe that's okay.

Maybe this walk to nowhere isn't about finding the answer.

Maybe it's just about taking the next step.

The apartment is dark when I get home. The silence feels different now—less like solitude, more like absence.

I toe off my shoes, letting them fall haphazardly by the door. My coat slips from my shoulders, pooling on the floor, but I don't bother picking it up. I feel weightless, unanchored, as if I might float away if I don't hold on to something.

Zayn's voice is still in my head. The way he looked at me. The way he didn't touch me.

"I don't know what to do with this," he had said.

Neither do I.

I walk back into the gallery by myself, the glow from the city filtering through the windows, casting shadows against the sculptures that stand frozen in place—silent witnesses to the storm inside me.

The First Touch.
Our beginning. The tension, the pull. That electric moment in the pub, the first time we really looked at each other and knew something was going to happen. That we were already caught in each other's orbit, whether we wanted to be or not.

The Gilded Cage.
My life, my past. The place I spent so long trying to escape, only to realize I carried the bars with me.

The Limo Scene.
A choice. A mistake. A moment I thought meant nothing but left fingerprints all over me anyway.

I close my eyes, exhaling shakily.

I spent so long pretending I wasn't afraid of feeling things that I forgot what it was like to actually feel them. I thought control meant power, that keeping everything at a distance meant I was the one holding the strings. But control isn't the same as certainty. And distance doesn't stop something from meaning everything.

I sit down heavily on the couch, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Zayn saw me tonight. Saw everything. And he still doesn't know if he wants to hold onto it.

I don't blame him.

I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his name in my messages.

I should say something. Tell him that I get it. That I'm just as lost as he is. That I'm terrified of what we mean, and even more terrified of what it would mean to let it slip through my fingers.

But I don't type anything.

Instead, I drop the phone onto the couch beside me, drag my knees up to my chest, and stare at the last sculpture in the room.

The Final Piece – "You Saw Me."

The man stands before the woman, his back turned to the audience. But she faces forward. Looking directly ahead.

She's waiting.

She's hoping.

She's terrified.

And for the first time, I wonder—

If he turns around, what will he see?

And will it be enough?

I don't know how long I sit there, staring at You Saw Me. The room feels bigger than it is, the silence pressing against my skin, thick and heavy. It's ridiculous, really. How a person can go from being surrounded by the weight of a hundred eyes to sitting in the middle of an apartment that suddenly feels too empty.

I check my phone. Again.

Nothing.

Not that I expected anything.

But still.

I huff out a breath, pushing myself off the couch and moving to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge. The only thing inside is leftover takeout, a few half-empty bottles of sparkling water, and a block of cheese I don't even remember buying. I stare at it for a second, then shut the door.

I should sleep. That's what a rational person would do.

Instead, I pace.

The air feels charged, like something is coming, but I don't know if it's an answer or just another question.

I press my fingers against my temple. It's stupid to think he'd text me first. If I were him, I wouldn't even know what to say. What is there to say?

But I also know Zayn.

I know the way he holds things close, the way he lets his emotions pool inside him until they overflow in ways he didn't plan for.

And right now, I don't know if that means he'll reach out or if he'll let it sit, simmering beneath his skin, until it turns into something neither of us can fix.

I pick up my phone again.

This time, I actually type something.

I don't know what to do with this either.

I stare at the words. They feel raw, but not enough.

I delete them.

Try again.

I didn't know how much I needed you to see me until you did.

Too much.

Delete.

I meant every word of what I said.

Send it, I tell myself.

My thumb hovers over the button, and my chest feels tight.

But then—

Read at 1:42 AM.

The breath rushes out of my lungs.

I stare at the screen as the little typing bubble appears—then disappears.

Reappears.

Disappears again.

I close my eyes.

I can't do this.

I turn off my phone, toss it onto the counter, and walk to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.

He saw it.

He saw it, and he doesn't know what to say.

I don't know if that's better or worse than no answer at all.