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This was the first time I had ever faced rejection, and it stung even more because it came from someone I had once bullied. It's a strange feeling when you find yourself believing you're in love with someone, clinging onto hopes and dreams of them finally accepting you. But deep down, I knew I was kidding myself. How could I possibly date someone I had treated so poorly? That's just not how life is supposed to work, right? It's all about karma and paying for your mistakes.
In this very moment, I can't help but blame my heart for having the audacity to fall in love with her. It's unsettling and bizarre, this desire to be with Skye. But let's be real, who am I fooling? It was never going to work between us. Instead, I would have just been met with disappointment, plain and simple.
I've come to understand that someone like me isn't destined to change, and I shouldn't expect to end up with the good girl.
Maybe I'm meant to be with the bad ones, after all.
I never truly understood the depth and significance of love until this very moment. Love, it seems, is a constant cycle of heartache and rejection. Each time I try to open myself up to loving someone, they ultimately choose another or cast me aside.
Yet, I have learned to accept this as part of life's unpredictable journey. I know that this feeling of contentment and fortune I currently possess won't last forever.
In this seemingly perfect existence of mine, there is one missing piece that continues to occupy my mind – the kiss.
It was an impulsive act, an unexpected collision of our lips. It happened so effortlessly, without any conscious thought on my part. I suppose it was my attempt at a love experiment, to see what would transpire from an unsolicited kiss. And I can't deny that I sensed her enjoyment, her reciprocation. I am certain that she relished that stolen moment as much as I did. It was this very experiment that ignited an immediate spark within me, a spark that whispered she might just be the one meant for me. Alas, I know these thoughts remain confined to the realm of dreams.
Never before have I experienced a spark quite like that with any other girl. And now, out of all the ladies I have dated, it is Skye who holds my heart's desire, despite her disdain for me. These conflicting emotions have left me in a constant state of restlessness.
"I love her...
I love her not...
Yeah, I love her...
Nah, not really..."
In these conflicting thoughts and tangled words, lies my shattered and bewildered heart - that's me, for sure. But I have to keep reminding myself what Skye told me: none of this is real, it's just in my head. It's all a figment of my imagination, so I can't let her words haunt me during sleepless nights. I need to continue living my life as I always have, embracing the drinking and late-night parties with the same fervor as before.
I refuse to change who I am, there's no turning back. Skye's words won't be allowed to ruin my evening.
After all, altering oneself for someone who suddenly ignites a spark within you takes immense effort.
As the cliché saying goes,
"Once a bully, always a bully."
Chapter Four
Dax
The gilded gates of my sprawling mansion yawned open like a reluctant sigh, swallowing my SUV whole. Stepping out, the weight of the past hour settled upon me like a shroud. The air, thick with the hush of an empty house, felt heavy on my lungs, the silence a stark contrast to the cacophony that had erupted across the border.
My father, perpetually chasing the tail of his next big deal, had abandoned the gilded cage to its own company. My mother, a wraith flitting through the shadows of her own life, was as absent as ever. The only familiar face, the only beacon in this echoing emptiness, was Aunt Mary, nestled on the couch like a forgotten jewel.
She slept, her arms wrapped around herself like a shield against the chill of neglect. A discarded phone lay on the floor, its dark screen a stark accusation. Sixteen missed calls, each one a silent echo of her waiting, of her worry. I had returned, but at what cost? The weight of my actions, a leaden cloak, settled upon my shoulders.
My hand, a ghost seeking solace, drifted to my pocket, fingertips brushing against the sleek coolness of the latest iPhone.
The screen, an accusatory mirror, reflected sixteen missed calls, sixteen unanswered pleas for reassurance.
The sixteen missed calls were a bridge, a fragile thread ?????????? across the chasm I had created. Each one a testament to her unwavering love, her unwavering faith in a nephew who had strayed so far.
Aunt Mary, bless her soul, she cared. In the stillness of the house, her quiet devotion was a balm to my tattered conscience. The sight of her, vulnerable and trusting in her slumber, was a stark reminder of the haven I had so readily abandoned.
The mansion, once a symbol of opulence and detachment, now felt like a mausoleum of lost connections. The air, once thick with the whispers of ambition and disdain, now held the faint scent of lavender and chamomile, a whisper of her presence, a reminder of the love that still bloomed amidst the decay.
And as I stood there, bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, a resolve hardened within me. This gilded cage, once a prison, now held the promise of redemption. This silence, once deafening, offered a canvas upon which I could paint a new story.
Aunt Mary, bless her soul, was the lone oasis in the emotional wasteland that was my family. While the rest of them danced a perpetual waltz of icy indifference or outright hostility, her embrace remained a warm refuge, a reminder of the love that once bloomed beneath this gilded roof.
