Aurora's Realm
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By the time I got home, the sky had already gone dark.
I went straight to my room without looking around. I didn't even take off my shoes before I sat on the edge of the bed.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass balcony doors — eyes tired, cheeks blotchy from holding back tears.
I should've known better than to go there.
To his office.
To try to talk to him.
But when I'd seen my designs on his desk, I thought maybe—
Maybe he'd want to understand.
Maybe we could at least talk.
Instead, all I got were his words — sharp, cold, cutting deeper with every syllable.
How am I supposed to talk to you when you can't even talk back?
It kept replaying in my head like a broken record.
He hadn't shouted those words. He didn't have to.
The way he said them — quiet, controlled, like a truth he'd been holding back — hurt more than any scream ever could.
I pressed my palms against my face, the heat of my skin burning against the coolness of my hands.
He didn't mean it, I told myself.
He was angry.
He didn't mean it.
But the tears came anyway — slow, silent, steady.
I stood and crossed to my desk, my eyes landing on the sketchbook I'd left open that morning. The page was half-finished — soft pencil strokes forming the outline of a face I couldn't seem to stop drawing these days.
His face.
I shut the book hard and turned away.
Dinner came and went — I heard the staff knock once, twice, then leave when I didn't respond. I couldn't eat. Couldn't think.
I just sat by the window, knees pulled close, staring out at the lights in the distance.
And when the tears stopped, the silence came back — heavy and familiar.
It was safer here, behind locked doors and unspoken words.
But still… his voice lingered.
And even though I wanted to hate him for it, a small, stubborn part of me still hoped he'd reach out. Just once.
The sound came softly at first — a single, quiet knock.
I froze.
Another followed, firmer this time.
"Aurora?"
His voice. Low. Careful. Almost uncertain.
I didn't move.
For a long moment, there was only silence. I stared at the door, fingers curled tight around the blanket, every muscle in my body tense.
Part of me wanted to get up, to open it.
Another part — the one still aching from his words — refused.
He stayed there for what felt like forever.
Then, a soft sigh.
The faint sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.
The quiet settled again, heavier now, like the walls themselves had heard every unspoken thing between us.
I stood finally, my legs stiff from sitting too long, and made my way to the bathroom.
The hot water felt almost too warm against my skin, washing away the day, the tension, the memories that wouldn't stop spinning in my head.
When I finally stepped out, wrapped in my robe, the mirror was fogged over.
I wiped it clean just enough to see my reflection — eyes red, hair damp, expression tired but calmer.
He came to my door.
He cared enough to come.
But caring didn't erase words.
I dried my hair, slipped into bed, and pulled the covers over my head, exhaling slowly until my breathing evened out.
Tomorrow, I'd go to Alex's.
Just for a few days, or even months
A change of space, a breath of air — something that didn't feel like walking on glass.
With that quiet promise whispering through my thoughts, I finally let my eyes close.
Sleep came slow, but it came.
And for the first time that night, the silence didn't hurt as much.
Morning came soft and pale, sunlight slipping through the curtains like it was afraid to touch anything.
For a few seconds, I lay still, half-asleep, caught between the comfort of dreams and the weight of remembering.
Then everything rushed back — his words, the look in his eyes, the knock on my door.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palms over my face.
No more crying.
Not today.
I pushed the covers back and got up, moving through the room in quiet efficiency. My bag was already half-packed — I'd done that last night, somewhere between deciding not to answer the door and convincing myself I'd be fine.
Joggers. A hoodie. My sneakers.
Comfort over everything.
I went to the mirror, brushing my hair until it fell neatly to my waist. It still smelled faintly of my shampoo — lavender and something light, like calmness bottled up. I needed that.
I slipped my iPad and my phone into my bag and took one last look around the room — the bed still rumpled, the sketchbook closed on the desk.
When I stepped into the hallway, the house was quiet again, but different. Lighter, somehow.
I didn't see Dominic, and I didn't look for him.
Downstairs, Mrs. Langley, the head staff appeared, surprised but polite. "Good morning, Miss Sinclair. You're heading out?"
I nodded, typing quickly on my tablet before turning the screen to her.
Yes. I'll be staying with my brother for a few days.
She nodded with understanding. "Of course, dear. I'll let Mr. Blackwood know."
I hesitated at that but only for a moment before giving a small nod.
The driver was already waiting outside. The air was crisp, the sky washed in soft blue — too calm for what I felt inside.
As the car started moving, I looked back once. The mansion stood still and quiet, the curtains in his study drawn shut.
I told myself I wasn't expecting to see him.
That it didn't matter.
But even when the gates closed behind us, part of me still waited — foolishly — for the sound of his voice calling my name.
It never came.
So I turned my gaze forward, toward the city, and didn't look back again. The drive to Alex's house felt longer than usual.
Maybe because I kept thinking — or trying not to.
By the time we pulled into the long, familiar driveway, the sun was high, warm light glinting off the windows. The garden outside was the same as always — neat, full of life, and too bright for how I felt inside.
The driver got out and opened my door, asking if he should help with my bag. I shook my head, typed a quick thank you, and dismissed him.
The front door opened easily.
I remembered he gave me a spare key before I left to Dominic's estate.
The house was quiet. Very quiet.
I stepped inside, the faint scent of coffee and cologne lingering in the air. Alex wasn't home.
For a moment, I just stood there — bag in hand, eyes sweeping over the familiar space. The soft gray couch. The half-read book on the coffee table. The framed photo of us on the shelf — his arm around me, both of us smiling.
I set my bag down and walked over to the window, letting the sunlight spill across my hands. The warmth helped a little. Not enough, but a little.
I pulled out my iPad and typed a message anyway.
At your place. Waiting.
The message delivered, but there was no reply. Probably at work. Probably busy being Alex.
So I waited.
Minutes turned into hours. The house hummed quietly — the refrigerator, the ticking clock, the rustle of trees outside. I curled up on the couch, sketchbook in my lap, trying to lose myself in lines and shadows.
But everything I drew ended up looking the same —
A man standing just far enough away to make you wonder if he'd ever step closer.
I shut the book softly and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
When I left this morning, I told myself I needed space.
But now that I had it, all I could feel was the echo of the silence he left behind.
The sound of a car engine pulled me out of my daze.
I looked toward the window just as the familiar white Bentley rolled into the driveway.
Alex was home.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the couch. For a second, I considered pretending to be asleep — maybe he'd just leave me be. But the door opened, and his voice filled the silence before I could think further.
"Aurora?"
He stepped inside, loosening his tie, his expression soft but tired. When his eyes landed on me, confusion flickered there first — then concern.
"What are you doing here?"
I reached for my iPad and typed quickly, I needed some air.
His brows furrowed. "From the house?"
I nodded.
He sighed quietly, walking over to set his briefcase down beside the table. "You could've told me you were coming. I would've come home earlier."
I shook my head. It's fine, I typed.
He watched me for a long moment, his gaze searching. "Did something happen?"
My hands hovered over the screen.
I wanted to say no.
To brush it off like I always did.
But the memory of last night — his voice raised, his words cutting into places I didn't even know were still fragile — it pressed at my chest until I couldn't breathe right.
Instead, I typed, Just tired.
Alex's jaw worked silently. He didn't believe me — he never did when I said that. But he didn't push either. He simply nodded once and said quietly, "You can stay as long as you need to."
He moved to the kitchen, the sound of water running breaking the quiet. After a while, he returned with a glass, setting it on the table in front of me.
"Drink something," he said softly.
I took it, managing a faint smile of thanks.
He sat across from me, elbows on his knees. "Aurora," he said finally, "if this has anything to do with Dominic, you don't have to keep it to yourself."
My fingers froze on the screen.
The mention of his name made my heart ache, even when I didn't want it to.
I typed slowly, It doesn't matter.
Alex exhaled through his nose, shaking his head a little. "It does, actually. Because you matter. And if someone hurt you—"
He didn't hurt me, I interrupted quickly.
Alex looked at me, eyes narrowing a bit. "Then why do you look like you haven't slept in days?"
I looked away, unable to answer.
The silence that followed was long but gentle. He didn't ask again. He simply leaned back, crossed his arms, and said, "Alright. You don't have to talk about it now. But promise me you won't just run off next time."
I nodded weakly.
He smiled a little — tired, but warm. "Good. I'll order dinner. You can shower and change if you want."
When he left for the kitchen again, I sat there a little longer, tracing invisible patterns on the glass with my fingertips.
Maybe one day, I'd tell him.
Maybe one day, I'd stop running from silence and learn how to speak again — even without words.
But not today.
It had been three days since I came to Alex's house.
Three days of silence and pretending everything was fine.
He didn't push. He never did. He gave me space — and maybe that was the problem. Space only made the thoughts louder.
Every time I tried to sleep, his words came back.
How do I talk to you when you can't even talk back?
Each one replayed sharper, colder, slicing through every fragile piece of calm I tried to build.
That evening, I found myself sitting on the couch again, the light from the TV flickering across the room. Alex was beside me, scrolling absently through his phone. The smell of burnt popcorn hung faintly in the air — he'd been trying to make a snack for the movie we weren't really watching.
"Rory," he said suddenly, voice low. "You've been quiet. Even for you."
I didn't answer right away. My throat tightened, and my fingers trembled as I reached for the iPad.
Maybe I could lie again.
Maybe I could just say I'm fine.
But the weight in my chest had grown too heavy for that.
I typed slowly.
Alex… something happened.
He turned to me fully, phone forgotten. "What do you mean?"
My hands shook harder as I wrote.
It was at the office… with Dominic.
His brows drew together instantly. "What about him?"
I hesitated, then forced myself to type.
We argued. He said things… things that hurt. About me being mute. About how I always type. He said he didn't know how to talk to someone who couldn't even talk back.
Alex's jaw clenched. I could see the flicker of disbelief and anger mixing in his expression.
I continued before I lost my nerve.
I tried to explain. I told him he shuts people out too — that he's cold and distant. But he didn't listen. He just… said worse things. And I left.
For a moment, Alex didn't say a word. He just sat there, his fists slowly tightening on his knees.
Then his voice came out low and controlled — too controlled.
"He said that to you?"
I nodded once.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "I swear, that man—" He stopped himself, shaking his head like he couldn't even find the right words. "He has no idea how lucky he is that you even try with him."
I bit my lip, blinking fast. My eyes stung.
Alex looked at me then — really looked — and his expression softened.
"Hey," he said quietly, "you didn't deserve that. You hear me?"
I nodded again, though my throat felt tight.
He leaned back against the couch, still tense. "And to think I told you he wasn't all that bad," he muttered, half to himself. "Guess I was wrong."
I looked down at my lap, my fingers frozen over the iPad. I didn't know how to defend Dominic — or if I even wanted to.
Because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how I replayed it in my head, the words still burned the same way.
Alex exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I'll talk to him."
My head snapped up immediately.
No. I typed quickly, almost pleading. Please don't.
He frowned. "Aurora—"
I don't want more trouble. I just needed to tell someone.
Alex's expression softened again, but the anger in his eyes didn't fade.
"Fine," he said quietly. "But if he ever says anything like that again—"
He won't, I typed. I'm not going back there.
The silence that followed was heavy.
He nodded slowly, and then, almost under his breath, he said, "Maybe that's for the best."
I didn't reply.
I just stared at the dim TV screen, my heart heavy — because part of me knew it wasn't that simple.
No matter how much I told myself I wasn't affected by his words, my thoughts kept drifting back to him.
To his voice.
To the hurt.
And to the strange ache that refused to fade.