i knew from the start • cale makar

chapter eighteen

gisele's pov

there's a kind of silence that feels like someone's name. like they're still here, even when they aren't.

i open my eyes before my alarm goes off.

my body wakes up before my mind does — and for a few minutes, i just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city outside my apartment window.

the air feels heavier today. like something is pressing down on my ribs. not painfully — just enough to remind me that something's off.

i roll onto my side, fingers brushing my phone on the nightstand. i don't pick it up. i already know what's not there.

no new messages.

and i hate that i was hoping for one.

from him.

i don't even know what he would say. or what i'd want him to say. but i haven't stopped thinking about him since the night at the café. since he looked at me like there was something in me worth listening to. like i wasn't invisible.

it was supposed to be nothing. a moment. a fluke.

but it's been days.

and he's still here — tangled in every quiet part of me.

i walk to the bookstore even though it's my day off.

i tell myself it's because i left my scarf there. it's probably on the back counter. maybe under the register.

but if i'm being honest, i think it's just because it smells like him there now. because the space feels warmer than my apartment. and because i need something familiar to keep me from unraveling.

marissa is behind the counter when i walk in, sipping coffee and reading some fantasy paperback with cracked corners.

she looks up and smiles. "you're not working today."

"i forgot something," i mumble, ducking behind the counter.

i find my scarf, right where i left it. soft, pale blue. still carrying the faintest scent of cinnamon and coffee.

or maybe that's just in my head.

marissa squints at me over her book. "so... are you gonna tell me what's going on or do i have to drag it out of you?"

i blink. "what?"

"you've been all... floaty," she says, waving her hand vaguely. "like you're here but not really. and you keep checking the door like you're waiting for someone."

i wrap the scarf around my hands and stare at the floor. "i'm not."

she grins. "so it is a boy."

"marissa—"

"is he hot?"

i sigh. "he's... quiet."

she raises an eyebrow. "that's not a no."

"he's—" i hesitate. then shake my head. "i don't know. it doesn't matter."

she softens. sets her book down. "gisele."

"what?"

"you can want things, you know," she says, gently. "you're allowed."

i swallow hard. "it's not that simple."

"sometimes it is."

i don't answer. just tuck the scarf under my arm and murmur something about going home.

when i get back to my apartment, i spend the afternoon cleaning just to keep my mind busy.

fold laundry. scrub the counters. reorganize my bookshelf for the third time this month. make tea. stare at the wall while it steeps.

he's still there. behind my eyes. beneath my skin.

i don't even know him.

but it doesn't feel like that's true anymore.

because the world feels different since him.

i hear a voice in my head now — his voice. low and calm. i hear it when i'm overthinking. when i'm anxious. when i feel too much and say nothing.

and somehow, just the idea of him calms me down.

how is that possible?

how can someone mean something when they barely know you?

at night, i journal. not because i want to. but because i don't know what else to do with all of it.

i write,

he asked about me like he actually wanted to know.
he didn't look at me like i was broken.
he just looked.
and for the first time in a long time, i didn't want to disappear.

i close the notebook too quickly. like it's a secret i'm not supposed to admit.

i crawl into bed. pull the covers up to my chin. stare at the dark ceiling until my eyes burn.

and when sleep finally comes, it brings him with it.

again.