NovelEnglishWaking up in the pitch-dark room, Zoey furrowed her brows in confusion. She was certain she hadn't turned off the light before bed. Who did? Springing up from her bed, her gaze darted towards the single armchair beside her bed. There, amidst the dim glow from the streetlights outside, she recognized the figure seated in the chair.
It was like a lightning strike in her brain. After running away for a day, she woke up to see Fitch? Quickly, she reached for the lights, and there he was, Fitch, sitting on the armchair, though he looked a bit under the weather. Instinctively, Zoey clutched the sheets, a wave of fear rushing from her feet to the top of her head.
Fitch remained silent, a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit, as if he just needed something to chew on.
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtThe cigarette was all bent out of shape from the pressure of his teeth. Seeing Zoey's shoulders shudder, he lowered his gaze, toning down his imposing demeanor.
"How about soatmeal? It's still hot," he said, gesturing towards a small pot on the table nearby.
Only then did Zoey notice the pot, still keeping the oatmeal warm. Standing up, carrying the weariness of a long journey on his shoulders, Fitch seemed to have just arrived.
He took the bowl, stirred it with a spoon, and sat beside the bed. "Eat something now that you're awake." For a moment, Zoey couldn't quite figure him out. He didn't seem angry; rather, he appeared heartbroken.
Speople wear their heartache outwardly, crying it out loud. But Fitch internalized his sorrow, seemingly calm but internally in turmoil.
Nolan was much the same, though as a child, he still knew to shed tears.
Feeling hungry, Zoey opened her mouth to the oatmeal spoon-fed to her. Fitch sighed in relief after feeding her, then took a tissue to wipe her mouth.
Finally, Zoey couldn't hold back. "Aren't you mad?" "I am." But if he lashed out, she would only run farther away.
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏmZoey had changed. The old Zoey could forgive everything Fitch did, still in love with him. But the Zoey now would only magnify his shortcomings.
What might be forgivable in others becomes unforgivable in him. Thus, despite the inner turmoil, seeing her lying there, he felt an overwhelming bitterness. She had run so far, just to avoid him. Suddenly, a thunderclap made Zoey realize his clothes were soaked through. It must have started pouring after she fell asleep, unnoticed by her.
Fitch set the bowl aside, casually removing his soaked jacket. His shirt, thin and clinging, had ridden slightly. Zoey caught sight of the scarred, burn-like wounds on his back. They looked severe, possibly life-threatening at the time, and now, quite gruesome. Surprised, her eyes widened. Definitely burns, severe ones. How had he gotten these wounds? But she felt it wasn't her place to ask, suddenly realizing there were many secrets Fitch seemed to bear. The last the was injured, facing her, she hadn't noticed these scars.
Now, with his back to her, he carelessly took off the dripping shirt, exposing the scars in a flash. It seemed he had almost forgotten about these marks, tossing the shirt aside nonchalantly.
Zoey wanted to ask something, but then there was a knock at the door. "Mr. Haskins, your clothes are here." Fitch walked over, brought in the clean clothes, and shut the door behind him, Zoey didn't know how to react until he went to take a shower.
Coming out with his wet pants changed, he seemed even more inscrutable. The atmosphere felt off as he asked, "Still feeling cold? Are your feet still cold?" "Not anymore." Her voice was a murmur, watching him sit on the edge of the bed, his voice suddenly hoarse.
"Zoey, you win. I won't push you anymore. I'm scared."
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