Chapter 13
The air hummed with the soft cooing of pigeons, their wings fluttering against the bright blue sky. Children's laughter rang through the square, a stark contrast to the silence between us.
For a long time, I didn't speak. Then, finally, I turned to Atlas. "You don't deserve to be by my side, Atlas," I said. "Nothing you possess belongs to me. It belongs to Ivy. Wasn't that your intention all along?"
His face hardened, but I didn't stop. "I've spent years living in the illusion you created, believing every lie you fed me," I continued, my words steady as my heartbeat. "Do you have any idea how much I hated myself when I finally saw the truth?"
His fingers twitched, his body otherwise still.
I released a slow breath, my expression unreadable. "I hated myself for loving you," I said, letting the words hang in the air, sharp as a blade. "I hated myself for loving the man who destroyed everything I had."
Atlas flinched, almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. And just like that, my anger dissipated. I looked at the face I had known for twenty years, the man who had shared my bed for five. And suddenly, there was no hatred left.
Perhaps, in every life, there's a person meant to wound you so deeply you're never quite the same.
I rose, gazing down at him. A soft, detached smile curved my lips, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Atlas," I said, my voice light, almost gentle, "I will never forgive you."
The summer sun beat down, but he seemed frozen. I watched as his lips parted slightly, then curled into something almost pitiful. "Celeste," he whispered, "but I love you. I really, truly love you." His voice was barely audible, lost to the wind before it reached me.
I lifted my camera, turning away from him, capturing the smiles of strangers—the joy of those who had never known the pain I had endured. In the corner of my frame, there was only one figure hunched on a bench, his face buried in his hands. The only one who didn't belong.
"Sis, will you take a picture for us?" A small, excited voice tugged at my sleeve. I turned to see a boy, no older than five, clutching a flower crown while his sister giggled beside him, placing it on his head.
A genuine smile broke across my lips for the first time in a long while. "Of course," I said, raising my camera. The shutter clicked, freezing their innocence. And for a moment, I thought of another day, two decades past. A five-year-old Atlas had woven a tiny grass bracelet and slipped it onto my wrist, his eyes full of childish devotion as he whispered, "I'll always protect you, Celeste. I won't let anyone hurt you." Back then, there had been no lies in his eyes; only me.
A sudden warmth pressed against my back, pulling me from my reverie. A breath—warm and painfully familiar—brushed my ear, sending an unwanted shiver through me. Atlas's arms wrapped around me tightly, almost desperately. I stiffened. His embrace was suffocating, as if he believed that if he held me close enough, I wouldn't escape.
His voice was hoarse, thick with sorrow and longing. "Celeste… don't you see?" he whispered against my skin. "That's us. That boy, that girl—they're us." His arms tightened. "Give me another chance," he pleaded. "Let me spend the rest of my life making things right. I'll give you everything you want. I'll give you anything. Just let me stay."
His breath hitched. Something hot and wet landed on my hand—his tears. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Then, in the coldest voice I had ever used with him, I said, "Atlas, I just want you to disappear."