Darkness Is The Only Light |18+

I hear him calling my name.

"Cali!" My brother's voice cuts through the darkness once more, echoing between the ancient trees.

I run toward it.

Branches whip against my skin as I push deeper into the forest, my feet barely touching the ground. Every breath burns. Every muscle screams.

"Wait! I'm coming!" I shout back, my voice breaking as it disappears into the night.

"Cali! Cali, hurry up! Come on!"

The sound of him is everywhere. Around me. Ahead of me. Inside my head.

My heart pounds violently against my ribs. I run faster.

Because hope is a dangerous thing. And right now, hope is all I have.

The tiny possibility that he came back for me, that after all this time, he returned and is waiting somewhere ahead, is enough to send adrenaline rushing through my veins.

My legs feel heavy. Numb. I can't feel my fingertips anymore. Sweat trickles down my forehead despite the cold night air, and each breath becomes harder than the last.

Still, I don't stop.

"Wait!" I gasp. "Please! I'm coming!"

His voice drifts through the darkness again, softer this time. "Cali, come with me. Come, and I promise it will never hurt again."

The words hit something deep inside my chest. A wound that never truly healed.

Please.

Please take me with you.

"I want to go with you, brother!" I cry desperately. "Please wait!" I leap over a fallen tree and stumble out of the forest.

The world suddenly opens around me.

A lonely field stretches beneath a silver moon, its pale light spilling across the tall grass like liquid mercury. The forest remains behind me, dark and endless, while the field ahead feels strangely untouched. Sacred.

For a brief moment, everything falls silent.

Then— "Cali..." His voice is weaker now. Farther away. "Cali..." Only a distant murmur. A fading memory.

Fear grips my chest. "No," I whisper.

No. Please don't leave me.

The first lightning bolt tears across the sky. The crack of thunder follows instantly, shaking the earth beneath my feet.

Then the rain comes. Lots of rain.

Within seconds, I'm soaked to the bone. Water streams down my face, clings to my eyelashes, turns the grass beneath my feet into a slick trap. Wind howls across the empty field, throwing wet strands of hair into my eyes.

The storm grows stronger. The darkness deeper.

But I keep running. I keep chasing the voice. The voice I've been chasing for years.

My lungs burn. My vision blurs. My body begs me to stop.

I don't listen.

I was running through the forest, I am now running through the sacred field.

I hear him calling my name.

I jolt awake, my heart slamming against my ribs so violently that for one terrifying second, I don't know where I am.

Darkness surrounds me. My breath catches.

Then I hear the house creak. That familiar, miserable sound of old wood settling somewhere beyond my bedroom door brings everything rushing back.

My room. Sadly, I am home.

I rub my heavy eyes, trying to gather my thoughts. For the love of God... Not those damn dreams again.

"Carmilla!"

I flinch at the sound of my name. Carmilla.

For a moment, I am no longer in my uncle's house. I am somewhere else entirely, somewhere warmer, brighter, somewhere that existed before everything went wrong. I see my father's face through the blur of an old memory, his smile soft as he looks down at me, his voice gentle when he says my name. Carmilla.

He told me once that it was the most beautiful name in the world. Back then, I believed him.

Now, I can't even hear it without feeling something inside my chest crack.

My hands tremble as I push myself out from beneath the covers. The mattress groans beneath me, springs protesting against the movement, and cold immediately bites through my clothes. My bare feet touch the floor and I flinch.

It's freezing. It always is in here.

My bedroom is the coldest room in the entire house. The old radiator in the corner hasn't worked properly in years, and the broken window doesn't help. A thin crack runs across one of the panes, another piece of glass missing entirely near the bottom, and the cold night air slips through the gap no matter how many times I stuff an old towel against it.

I glance toward it. The curtains move faintly, letting the cold wind shake my body.

"Carmilla, fucking get down here!" My uncle's voice explodes from downstairs.

I freeze.

"You don't want me to come drag you down, trust me on that!"

Every muscle in my body locks. His voice does that to me.

It always has.

My fingers curl into the sleeves of my sweater as the memories cling to me. The shouting, the footsteps, the feeling of being trapped, his hands on my body--

I swallow hard.

Don't think about it. Just go downstairs.

He hates waiting, I learned that a long time ago. So I force myself to take one step toward the door. Then another.

The hallway outside is even colder. The house is old enough that everything seems to make noise. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, pipes groan somewhere inside the walls, and the wind rattles the loose window frames. Paint peels from the walls in long, ugly strips, and the ceiling above the staircase has a dark stain from an old leak that nobody ever bothered to fix.

I grip the railing as I hurry downstairs. My heart is beating too fast. I can already hear him. Glass clinks then something heavy scrapes against the table.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn left toward the living room. "Y-yes, uncle Marcus?" My voice comes out so quietly that I almost hope he doesn't hear me.

But he does.

Marcus is sitting on the couch, hunched over the coffee table. Empty bottles cover nearly every inch of it, beer, bourbon, things I stopped bothering to identify a long time ago. One bottle lies on its side, a dark stain spreading across the old wooden surface beneath it.

He looks terrible. Tall and painfully thin, with grey hair and a short beard that's beginning to grow unevenly, he seems almost swallowed by the darkness of the room.

Everything about him is grey. His eyes, his hair, his house, his soul..

I immediately lower my gaze. Never look him directly in the eyes. Sometimes I think even that can set him off.

"The fuck took you so long?!"

My shoulders jump. "I-I'm sorry."

"You heard me calling you."

"Y-yes."

"And?"

I swallow. "I-I came as quickly as I could."

His hand slams against the table, making me flinch. I can already feel the sting of his hits. "Don't fucking lie to me."

My pulse skyrockets. "I'm not--" The words die in my throat. Wrong answer. I know it the second they leave my mouth.

Marcus slowly stands.

I take a step backward.

He notices my fear and his mouth twists in a cruel smirk. "Look at you."

I stare at the floor, my body quivering.

"Always fucking afraid." He takes another step. "I take care of you. I feed you. I give you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me?"

My stomach turns. The words are always the same. Ungrateful, lazy, bitch, burden.

I've heard them for years.

After my parents died in a car accident, my brother Elyan became my legal guardian. He was only eighteen when he took me in, but he loved me. He tried to give me a home.

I was only six years old and Elyan was everything to me. Then, when I was eight, life took him away too.

After that, there was Marcus. And there was no one left to protect me.

"I-I am sorry, uncle." My voice shakes despite my best efforts not to let the fear and panic cloud my mind. Well.. it never really works.

He stops directly in front of me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, strong and bitter. My stomach clenches. "You're always sorry." His voice drops.

That's worse than when he shouts. I know that. I've learned to recognize the difference over the past years. The quiet voice means I should be even more afraid.

Desperate to save myself from another punishment, the words tumble out. "I-I'll be better." I try.

"Better?" He laughs once, but the laughter doesn't reach his eyes. "You think saying that fixes everything?"

"No."

"Then why the fuck did you open your mouth?"

"I..." I don't know. There is never a right answer.

My heart pounds harder and I take another tiny step backward.

But then his expression changes and I know what's coming. I just don't know how bad it will be.

"Uncle, please—"

His hand moves.

SLAP!

Pain explodes across my cheek, my head snaps sideways. I stumble, nearly losing my balance before catching myself against the wall. My cheek burns instantly.

My eyes fill with tears. "I-I'm sorry," I whisper, pressing my palm against the sting. "P-Please forgive me.."

Only his laughter is heard when his fingers suddenly twist into my hair. I gasp whilst he yanks me with strenght so brutal I cry out. Pain shoots across my scalp as my feet lose contact with the floor for a second before I crash onto the cold wooden boards.

My palms scrape against the floor. "Please..." The word barely leaves me. I already know begging won't stop him, because it never did before.

His shadow falls over me and I curl instinctively inward, bringing my arms over my head.

Then his foot connects with my ribs. A sharp, crushing pain tears through my side and I cry out.

Another kick.

Then another.

I try to make myself smaller. Just.. smaller, invisible.

Maybe if I'm small enough, he'll forget I'm here. Maybe if I don't move, don't speak, don't make a sound, it'll end faster.

"Fucking useless."

Another kick.

I squeeze my eyes shut. My mind drifts to Elyan. I think about the way he used to tuck blankets around me when I was little because I always complained about being cold. I think about his voice telling me everything would be okay.

But it's not. Nothing is okay.

The pain eventually becomes one enormous blur. When it finally stops, I stay curled on the floor. I don't move. I don't even dare to.

Tears slide silently down my cheeks and disappear into the fabric of my sleeve. Every breath hurts. My ribs ache, my cheek throbs, my entire body feels like it doesn't belong to me anymore.

Then Marcus steps away, I hear him pick up one of the bottles. "Clean this mess."

I slowly lift my head. The room spins around me and I need to take a second to steady myself. Glancing down, there's a broken glass near my hand. I don't even remember it falling.

"Then make me something to eat." He commands as he takes another drink. "I'm starving."

I stare at the floor. For a moment, I can't make my body move. Then I force my hands beneath me, my arms shake as I push myself upright. "Y-Yes, uncle." I wipe my tears before he can see them, but I don't really know why I bother. He already knows I'm crying.

I crawl toward the broken glass.

And as I begin picking up the pieces with trembling fingers, the one thought settles quietly into the deepest part of me.

I'm broken.

By the time I finish cleaning the living room and preparing a proper English breakfast for my uncle, the sky outside has begun to lighten.

It is already six in the morning when I finally make my way back upstairs. My body aches with every step and I can't swallow a few whimpers.

I close the door to my room behind me and sit down on the edge of my small bed, letting out a quiet breath. I have to leave for school in about an hour and I really don't know how I'm supposed to get through another day like this.

My hand reaches for the painkillers sitting on my nightstand. I shake two into my palm, place them on my tongue, and swallow them with the glass of water beside my bed. I don't even bother waiting for them to work. I know better than that. The pain doesn't disappear just because I take a couple of pills. It only becomes slightly easier to ignore.

Slowly, I push myself to my feet and walk toward the mirror. For a moment, I simply stand there. The girl staring back at me looks exhausted. A strand of my dark curls has fallen across my face, so I brush it away and stare at my reflection. My eyes immediately go to my cheek.

And yes... blue. The bruise has already started to spread beneath my skin.

I take a slow breath. My fingers slide through my hair as I try to gather enough courage to take off my shirt. The truth is that I know what is underneath it, I know exactly what I'm going to see.

Still, knowing doesn't make it any easier. My hands hesitate at the hem of my shirt before I finally pull it over my head.

I look at myself and there it is.. Violet bruises cover my ribs, my stomach, my hips, the tops of my thighs. Some are darker than others, some are already beginning to fade, while new ones bloom over old ones.

I stare at them silently, feeling my eyes water again.

One more pole dance practice canceled. Keep it coming.

A bitter little laugh almost escapes me, but there isn't enough energy for it. My body simply can't keep up anymore.

Since my uncle became addicted to gambling, I'm the one who works. I'm the one who earns money. I'm the one who makes sure there is some tiny amount of food left in the house. But he's been taking too much of the money away lately, to feed his addiction. So food has become a luxury I cannot always afford.

Anyway, at first, I worked as a waitress at a bar a few blocks away. It was obviously illegal, I was only fifteen. I was too young, the hours were terrible, and the people there knew exactly how vulnerable girls like me were. But I needed the money, and really needing it eventually made me stop caring about what is legal and what isn't.

But after a few months of that hell, I found something else. I became a pole dance instructor at the same dance studio where I've been training for almost ten years.

Pole dancing.

I love it.

People who have never tried it probably don't understand. They see a pole and assume it's only about the way someone's body looks.

To me, it's art. It's strength and it's control. When I'm dancing, I don't feel like the girl who has to constantly watch her uncle's mood. I don't feel like someone who has to apologize for taking up space. I don't feel weak or afraid.

I feel powerful.

Free.

For those few minutes, nothing else matters.

But I haven't been able to practice properly for a long time now. I'm simply not able to. Years of being hurt will eventually do something to a body. I suppose that's inevitable. My body is just too... hurt.

I look away from the mirror. Lately, even some of the people I know have started noticing. They ask me if I'm okay, they ask if something happened. Sometimes they stare at my face a little too long, as if they're trying to figure out why I always look tired. Sometimes they ask about the bruises.

And every single time, I smile.

Because the thought of anyone finding out what my own uncle does to me makes me sick. I don't want their pity. I don't want questions.

And for the love of God.. I don't want anyone to confront Marcus. I know what would happen if they did. What I do not know is whether or not I would survive it.

So I've started practicing my smile instead. I guess people need to see me actually smiling sometimes to believe that I'm okay.

It feels wrong, though. What is there left to smile about? That maybe, just maybe, a very big maybe, I'll someday escape from him?

I don't think that's good enough anymore.

Still, I turn toward the mirror and force my lips upward. A smile appears, my white teeth show. But my eyes don't play along. Lately they never do.

Why can't my eyes just smile with my mouth? Why do they have to show pain?

I stare at them.

I remember when these blue eyes used to have so much life in them. When they were bright and curious and belonged to a little girl who believed the whole wide world was kind. Before she encountered Evil and his grey eyes..

Now they look almost dead. I suppose that's another thing you lose when you're hit often enough.

I pull my shirt back on and quietly walk into the tiny bathroom and lock the door behind me. I know Marcus probably went to sleep after being out all night, but I still don't trust it. Even behind a locked door, some part of me expects the handle to suddenly turn.

I'm traumatized, if we didn't get it by now.

After a quick shower, I grab my toiletry bag and begin doing my makeup. First, I apply foundation over my face and neck, carefully covering every bruise I can find.

I've never liked wearing foundation, I like my freckles. There aren't many of them, but they're mine, and I always liked seeing them on my skin. But on the days when my face wins the lottery, I do need full coverage.

I sigh. Lately I've been winning that lottery far too often. It makes me sad when I think about it. It wasn't always like this.

Swipe or two of mascara, clear lip gloss and I'm done.

People make assumptions. If a girl wears makeup, she must take care of herself. If she looks put together, she must be doing well. If she smiles, she must be happy. It's almost funny how easy it is to fool people.

I get dressed in black jeans and a dark red long-sleeved shirt, making sure there isn't a single part of my body left uncovered that could reveal a bruise. Over it, I pull on my black fluffy jacket.

Then I pack my sketchbook into my backpack. Before leaving, I add two candles. I'm going to visit my parents.

I grab my phone, wallet, and keys. Then I take one last look around my room before opening the door.

I don't know why I do it.

Maybe some part of me is hoping that when I come back, everything will somehow be different.

It never is.

The fifteen-minute walk through the quiet streets of London's suburbs passes almost without me noticing.

My headphones drown out the world around me, playing softly in my ears. It's still early, the streets aren't completely awake yet.

When I reach the cemetery, the gates stand almost completely empty. It isn't even seven in the morning, so there are barely any people around.

I walk between the rows of graves until I reach the one I know by heart. My parents.

I stop in front of the gravestone.

For a few seconds, I can't move. It happens every time. No matter how many years pass, seeing those two names carved into the stone still feels like someone reaches into my chest and squeezes my heart.

'Rest in peace Leonardo and Elena Gerard.'

My eyes burn. "Hi, Momma and Dada," I kneel in front of the grave and take the two candles from my backpack. My fingers tremble slightly as I light them and place them in front of the stone.

Unlike my parents, who died in a tragic car accident, my brother's death remains a mystery.

There is no grave for him. No stone with his name. No memory.

Nothing.

He didn't die in an accident. He was hanged. In the middle of our apartment.

The memory still follows me. Every time I close my eyes, I can see him. His body hanging from the ceiling.. Completely still.

I was only eight years old. The policemen investigating his death told me he had killed himself.

Suicide? Even now, I refuse to believe it.

My brother wouldn't have done that. Elyan promised me he would take care of me. He promised he would never leave me behind. And he wouldn't break that promise. He couldn't.

At least, that's what I need to believe.

After his death, Marcus became my legal guardian because he was my only living relative. He told me we didn't have enough money to bury Elyan in the cemetery. So he said he would "take care of it."

I was eight, I didn't know what that meant. I didn't understand money. I didn't understand adults. I didn't understand why my brother didn't get a grave like mom and dad did.

It took me almost two years to understand the truth. Marcus wasn't poor. He was addicted to gambling. He could have paid for Elyan's burial, but he simply chose to spend almost everything he had in casinos instead.

My throat tightens. I sit down on the stone curb beside my parents' grave. My hand automatically reaches into my wallet and I take out a small Polaroid.

The corners are worn from how many times I've held it. It's a picture of me and Elyan. I was nearly eight when it was taken. He is holding little me in his left arm, and I'm smiling despite the tears still visible on my cheeks.

I remember that day. I had been crying about mom and dad again. Elyan couldn't stand seeing me sad, so he took me on a little road trip to the seaside. We spent the day together, just the two of us. And somehow, at that age, I thought that was enough. I thought that as long as I had my big brother, I didn't need anyone else. I loved him. I still do.

A tear falls onto the photograph.

I quickly wipe it away with my thumb, terrified of damaging it.

Then I turn it over. Written on the white space beneath the picture are the words I have read a thousand times.

'I will never leave you, Cali.'

- Elyan.'

My vision blurs, I stare at the handwriting until I can't see it anymore. Then I bury my face in my hands. The grief I've been holding inside for years once again pushes its way through my chest, too enormous to keep contained.

A sob escapes me. Then another.

"B-but you did leave," I whisper through my tears. My shoulders shake. "You left me all alone."

It is four in the afternoon when I finally leave school. The moment I step through the doors, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

It's been such a long day. All I want is to go home, crawl into my bed, pull the blankets over my head, and sleep until tomorrow.

But I can't. I have to be at work in twenty minutes.

Today, I'm teaching until eleven, when the studio closes, which means there is no chance of getting home early. And honestly? I'm not even upset about it. Anything is better than being in that house with him.

I make my way toward the underground station, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder as I walk. My entire body still aches from this morning, and every now and then, a sharp sting reminds me of the bruises underneath my clothes.

I ignore it. Well.. at least try to.

The underground takes me toward the center of London, and eventually I step out into the familiar streets surrounding the dance studio.

The sign comes into view. Dance It Up.

I can't help the small smile that pulls at my lips. This place feels different from everywhere else. I've been coming here for almost ten years now. I was just a little girl when I first started training pole dancing. Back then, I never would have imagined how important this place would become to me.

For years, I trained simply because I loved it. Then money started getting tight. Really tight. And suddenly, pole dancing became a luxury I couldn't afford anymore.

I remember the day I told my instructor I wouldn't be able to continue. I tried to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. I smiled and said I just needed to take a break. But she knew I was lying. The director of the studio, a woman named Charlotte, noticed how much I loved pole dancing and how naturally it came to me. She pulled me aside one afternoon and asked why I was leaving. I told her I couldn't afford the classes anymore and she didn't hesitate. She told me I could keep training. For free.

There was just one condition, I'd help around the studio in return. Cleaning the mirrors, organizing equipment, folding mats, helping younger students when they needed an extra pair of hands. Anything she needed.

I would have done twice as much if it meant I could keep dancing. And I did. I spent every spare minute here.

Eventually, Charlotte started noticing things I hadn't noticed myself. How quickly I learned new moves, how much strength I'd built and how easily I could explain techniques to other students.

When I got older, I was about sixteen, she offered me a position as an assistant instructor. That was almost two years ago.

I step inside the studio, and the familiar smell of rubber mats, disinfectant, and sweat immediately surrounds me. I change quickly and head into the training room.

The next few hours disappear. Teaching gives me something I can't find anywhere else. My mind becomes quiet, I don't think about Marcus, I don't think about money.

I don't think about bruises or bills or what might happen when I eventually have to walk through that front door again.

And when I'm not teaching or practicing, I study here also.

I'm a senior, and in a few months, I'll be applying to the Arts University so I really need good grades. Art is the one thing I've always known I want to pursue, and I'm not going to let my home life take that away from me.

Besides, I can't study at home. Not anymore.

I can never fully relax there. Every sound makes me tense. Every door opening makes my stomach twist. Some part of me is always waiting for Marcus to suddenly burst through my bedroom door.

Here, I don't have to listen for his footsteps. I don't have to wonder whether I'm about to get hurt. I can breathe. That's worth more to me than I can explain.

By the time my final class begins, I'm already exhausted.

"One more time, Chloe!" I encourage, clapping my hands softly. "Come on. Climb up, up, up!"

Chloe grins through her exhaustion and grips the pole tighter. She's only thirteen, but she's doing incredibly well. She pulls herself higher, using her arms and legs to climb until she's almost at the top.

"That's it!" I call out. "Good!"

She wraps her legs around the pole, locking herself securely in place.

"Now let go with your hands and lean backwards. Slowly. Don't rush."

Her hands hesitate.

"It's okay," I tell her, keeping my voice calm. "I've got you. Just breathe."

She takes a deep breath. Then slowly releases her hands. Her body leans backward, and she begins sliding down the pole.

"Slowly," I remind her.

Slowly, she slides down until her palms touch the floor.

"Good job," I say. "Now push into a back bridge and come back onto your feet."

She nods.

Her hands press into the mat, and she arches backward, shifting her weight until she manages to land on her feet.

"Good job, girl. I'm proud of you."

She bends over, trying to catch her breath. "Thank you."

"Now stretch properly." I point toward the mats. "And we'll see each other in two days, right?"

She nods. "Yeah. Wednesday at five."

"Good. See you Wednesday. Bye!"

"Bye, Cali!"

I leave her to stretch in peace and walk toward the lockers. It's almost eleven. The studio is quieting down now. The music has stopped in most of the rooms, and the voices that filled the halls throughout the evening are slowly disappearing.

I reach my locker and open it. I grab my backpack and pull out my black fluffy jacket, slipping it over my shoulders.

I'm just about to close the locker when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey, Cali. What's up?"

I turn around. Anastasiya is standing few steps away, smiling at me.

My smile immediately becomes real.

Ana is about six years older than me, twenty-four, and she trains hip-hop here. Her shiny blonde hair falls just past her shoulders, slightly damp from training. Her eyes are pasture green and are still so bright, despite how tired she looks.

She moved here from Russia three years ago and still has a noticeable Russian accent when she speaks. Her English is almost perfect, though. And I love listening to her talk, Russian reminds me of my mother.

Mom was Russian too. She taught me a few words when I was little.

Before everything changed and my life became what it is now.

I push those thoughts away. “Hi, Ana.” I immediately walk over and hug her. “Nothing much. Just finished teaching. What about you?”

She laughs and hugs me back. “I just finished training.” She wipes the sweat from her forehead and takes a deep breath, looking absolutely exhausted. “Damn that Jackson. I swear, that man is trying to kill us. I nearly saw God during the last routine, and I don't even believe in him.”

I stare at her for a second before bursting out laughing. “So that bad, huh?” I exaggerate on purpose, teasing.

“Oh, fuck you.” She pokes me in the arm. “You should have seen me five minutes ago. I was sweating so much I could've filled the fucking pool.”

I laugh even harder. “That's disgusting.” I tease some more.

“That's dance.” She points out, completely serious. “Beauty is pain," she assures then winks at me. "We Slavic girls get it."

“Sure.” I shake my head, still smiling. I'm tehnically only half Slavic, but I do give her that one.

For a few seconds, I manage to forget everything. The bruises, the house, Marcus. All of it.

This is what I like about Ana. She makes me feel like a normal teenage girl. Like my biggest problem is listening to her complain about nearly dying during dance practice.

I glance at the time on my phone. "I should probably go."

Her smile drops slightly. "Already?"

"Yeah. I have to get home." I don't tell her that I don't really want to. I don't tell her that staying here until midnight would be easier than walking through my own front door. Instead, I give her another smile. "But maybe we can see each other tomorrow?"

"I'm in." Her face brightens immediately. "We need to catch up. Properly. We should go get a coffee." She nudges me with her shoulder. "You know, sit somewhere like normal people and talk about our lives."

I swing my backpack over my shoulder. "It's a date then. Bye for now."

"Wait." Her voice stops me before I can take another step.

I turn around, seeing that expression has changed. The playful smile is gone, replaced by something more serious.

"What?" I mumble.

She hesitates for a second, then crosses her arms over her chest. "Has that fucker tried to approach you again or anything?"

My stomach drops. Just knowing she meant my ex boyfriend makes the warmth disappear from my body.

I look down at the floor, suddenly very interested in the laces of my shoes. "No." Thank God. But the word still comes out quieter than I intended.

Ana studies my face. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "I haven't heard from him since.. that day."

Three months. It's been three months since the last time I saw him. Three months since Ana found me before things could get even worse.

I still remember how terrified I was that day. How helpless I felt. How badly I wanted him to just stop.

Even now, thinking about it makes my chest tighten. I hate that memory of him still has this effect on me.

"I haven't seen him either," I add quickly. "I blocked his number, but he made no attempts to reach me in person." Love it. May it please stay like that.

Ana's shoulders relax a little. "Good. I'm glad to hear that."

I force a small smile. "I'm glad too." Because as much as I try to convince myself that Steven is gone from my life, some part of me is still afraid he'll suddenly appear again.

That he'll wait outside the studio. That he'll follow me home. That I'll turn around and see him standing there.

But three months have passed. Nothing.

Maybe he's finally left me alone.

Ana steps closer and gently squeezes my arm. Her lips form a warm smile.

I smile back, even though the knot in my stomach hasn't completely disappeared. "Now I really have to go."

"Fine," she rolls her eyes, "but tomorrow we're getting that drink. And you're not allowed to cancel."

I laugh softly. "I won't."

"Good. Davay, babe." (See ya).

"Bye, babe." I turn toward the exit.

Finally, I leave the dance studio and step outside. The cold wind immediately hits my face, slipping beneath my jacket and making me shiver.

I pull it tighter around myself and look up at the night sky. The moon hangs above London, big and silver against the darkness, surrounded by hundreds of tiny white stars. Below it, the warm yellow glow of the streetlights spills across the sidewalks, reflecting off the damp pavement and painting the city in a strange mixture of gold and black.

London is beautiful at night.

Sometimes I think it's almost unfair how beautiful this city can be while my life feels like it's falling apart.

I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking.

Damn it, it's so late. I have about ten minutes of fast walking before I reach the underground, and all I want is to get there, get home, and crawl into my bed. My entire body aches from everything that happened today and I seriously just need to take a break.

I turn right at the first crossroads and continue down the next street, keeping my hands tucked inside my jacket pockets as I hurry along the pavement.

That's when I see them.

A few feet ahead, three tall men are leaning against the side of a building. Cigarettes glow between their fingers as they talk and laugh quietly, their voices carrying through the empty street. I barely pay attention to them at first, but then one of them laughs, and the sound of his voice makes every muscle in my body tense.

I know that voice. Steven.

My heart immediately starts pounding against my ribs. Please. Please, not him.

How terribly ironic is that?

It's way too late to turn around so I lower my head and keep walking, trying to hide my face as much as possible while silently praying that he won't look at me. But I know that he always watches every girl who walks past him. But maybe the darkness will hide me. Maybe he'll be too distracted by his friends.

Don't recognize me. Please, for the love of God, don't recognize me.

I pass them, forcing myself not to look back. It's okay girl. You're okay, he didn't see--

"Cali?"

The sound of my name coming from behind me makes my blood run cold. I stop breathing for a second, my fingers curling tightly inside my pockets as every horrible memory I have tried to bury comes rushing back at once.

My ex-boyfriend recognized me. This day just keeps getting better and better.

I don't turn around. I don't answer him. Instead, I force my legs to move, walking faster and faster until I'm practically running. Behind me, I hear his footsteps moving away from the building.

"Cali! Wait the fuck up!"

My heart jumps into my throat. I break into a full sprint.

I can hear him chasing me now, his footsteps growing louder with every second. I turn left at the next crossroads even though I should have continued straight toward the underground. There is no point anymore. He'll catch me before I'll reach it anyway. His legs are much longer than mine, and after everything my body has been through today, I don't have the strength I normally would.

Every step sends pain through my legs, my ribs, my stomach, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

"CALI!"

His roar echoes through the empty street, and panic floods through me so violently that for a moment I feel like I can't breathe. I know that voice. I know that anger. I've heard it before, felt it before, and I remember exactly what happened the last time I couldn't get away from him.

I push myself harder, ignoring the burning in my muscles as I run down the dark street. My lungs are starting to ache, my legs feel heavy, and I can hear his breathing somewhere behind me, but the sound that scares me the most is how close his footsteps are getting.

Closer.

Closer.

I glance over my shoulder for only a second, and the sight of him running after me makes my stomach twist.

He's gaining on me.

I turn my head forward again and force myself to run faster, even though my body is screaming at me to stop. There are no people around, no open shops, no one I can call for help. Just the empty London street stretching ahead of me and Steven getting closer behind me.

After three months of relief, that kind of fear settles deep inside my bones once again.

I might not get another chance to escape him.

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Psycho_xbabyx