Chapter 13
1446words
Leo left. Ryder was still here.
His vow of "never letting go" still echoed in my ears, stubborn and desperate.
We stood like that, separated by a few feet, yet it felt like an unbridgeable chasm between us. The bag of Thai food, once full of life's warmth, now lay quietly on the table, emitting an ironic aroma.
In the end, I moved first. I walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and rinsed the dried clay from my hands with cold water. Gray pieces flaked off, disappearing down the drain, but I felt like I would never be truly clean again.
"You should have told me," Ryder's voice sounded behind me, tired and hoarse, "You should have told me that he was 'the one.'"
I turned off the faucet, the sound of water stopped, and the silence became deafening once again.
I turned around, leaning against the sink, "I didn't know he would come back."
This was a fact, but it sounded like a lame excuse.
"But what if he hadn't come back?" Ryder stepped closer, his eyes showing a final struggle, "Jules, without him, what would there be... between us?"
It was a cruel question. Because it forced me to face a truth I had been avoiding all along.
I looked at Ryder, at that face that always made me feel secure. This year, he was like a sturdy ship, carrying me through the most turbulent storms. With his sunshine, his music, his companionship, he gradually pulled me out from the quagmire of self-doubt.
What I felt for him was dependence, gratitude, and a familial intimacy.
But it wasn't love.
Love is chaos, is madness, is that fire you rush into recklessly even knowing you'll be burned. Love is Leo Vance.
"Ryder," my voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable resolve, "I'm sorry."
These two words had already declared all the answers.
The light in his eyes completely extinguished. He nodded slowly, as if using all the strength in his body. He didn't say anything more, just looked at me deeply one more time, then turned around, picked up the now-cold bag of dinner, and walked out of my studio.
The moment the door closed, I finally allowed myself to slide down to the floor, burying my face in my knees.
My mind had never been so clear before.
I needed a farewell. A formal, mature farewell. Not just for Ryder, but more for myself.
The next day, I arranged to meet Ryder in the basement where his band practiced. That was where he felt most comfortable, surrounded by his instruments, his posters, his world.
He sat on an amplifier, holding an unplugged bass guitar, his fingers unconsciously plucking the strings, producing dull sounds.
"You came," he said, without looking up.
I walked up to him, "I'm sorry, Ryder. Yesterday... I messed everything up."
He finally looked up, giving me a bitter smile, "No, you didn't. You just made a choice."
"Before I make my choice," my voice was a bit choked, "I must thank you. Thank you for seeing me when I was at my worst. Thank you for making me believe that I too could be liked. You've given me more than anyone else ever has."
"But that's not what you want," he stated calmly.
My tears fell, "I depend on you, Ryder. I need you. But I can't use your goodness to fill the hole in my heart. That wouldn't be fair to you."
He remained silent for a long time, so long that I thought he wouldn't speak again. Then, he put down his bass, stood up, and gently gave me a hug. This embrace was different from any other time, without ambiguity, without desire, only a pure, heartbreaking tenderness.
"Then let's be friends, Jules," he said in my ear, "Friends forever. The kind where you call me at three in the morning, and I'll still show up."
I nodded hard, my tears soaking his T-shirt.
"Promise me one thing," he released me, looking into my eyes, "don't let him hurt you again. If he dares to break your heart like he did a year ago, I swear, I'll beat him until even his has-been celebrity dad won't recognize him."
I smiled through tears, "Okay."
Only by saying goodbye to the past could I race toward the future.
I didn't even go home, driving straight from Ryder's basement to downtown. I knew where Leo's studio was; he had told me before—it was the only place he felt truly belonged to him.
It was on the top floor of an old industrial building, with enormous windows and excellent natural light. I didn't knock, just gently turned the doorknob. The door opened.
The studio was filled with the scent of turpentine and paint, a familiar smell that calmed my heart. Canvases, easels, paint tubes scattered everywhere, chaotic yet full of life.
Then, I saw those paintings.
On the walls, on the floor, leaning against the windows—all of them, every single one was of me.
Me with braces and a silly smile, me troubled by acne, me falling asleep in the library, me running in the rain... he drew every version of me—the good, the bad, the embarrassing, the beautiful. Like a devoted court historian, he documented my entire youth with his brush.
My heart was gripped tightly by an invisible hand, feeling both sour and swollen.
He stood with his back to me, in front of a massive new canvas. The canvas had only simple charcoal outlines of a girl's back view, standing before a door, seemingly hesitating whether to enter or not.
That was me yesterday, standing at the entrance of my studio.
All hesitation and uncertainty vanished in this moment.
I walked toward him slowly and silently. He was completely immersed in his own world, unaware of my presence.
From behind him, I stretched out my arms and tightly embraced his waist.
His body suddenly stiffened, the brush slipped from his hand, falling to the ground with a crisp sound.
"Jules？"His voice turned hoarse from shock, afraid to look back, as if fearing that turning around would reveal it was just an illusion.
I pressed my cheek against his broad and warm back, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, filled with his scent.
"I choose you," I said softly, each word clear and firm, "Leo, I choose the person who has been in the rain with me, shared secrets with me, who can see through all my disguises, and is willing to walk toward the future with me."
"I choose you, my mate."
His rigid body completely relaxed after I finished the last sentence. He suddenly turned around, grabbed my shoulders with both hands, those deep eyes surging with incredible ecstasy, redemption, and belated pain.
"Say that again," he commanded, his voice slightly trembling from intensely suppressed emotions.
I stood on my tiptoes, looking directly into his eyes, "I choose you, Leo Vance."
The next second, he gripped the back of my head and kissed me fiercely.
This kiss was different from any before. It was no longer the awkward exploration of adolescence, nor the defiant punishment after an argument.
This was an adult's kiss, filled with the madness of regaining what was lost and the longing suppressed for an entire year. His tongue invaded my mouth domineeringly, with a force that seemed intent on devouring me whole, plundering my breath. I could taste the faint tobacco on his lips, mixed with both our tears, salty and burning hot.
I responded to him forcefully, my fingers threading through his soft hair, pulling him closer. The world was spinning, the paints, canvases, and light in the studio all melting into a blurred background.
The only things that remained clear were his strong heartbeat, his burning skin, and the possessive pressure of his lips and teeth.
After a long while, he finally released me, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing ragged.
"Move in with me," he said, "tonight."
Just as I was about to answer, his phone suddenly rang.
He glanced at the screen, his expression changed. "It's the family lawyer."
He answered the call, and after listening for just a few seconds, his face turned pale.
"They're here? Now?" his voice was tense, "Okay, I understand."
He hung up the phone, looked at me, with a calm in his eyes that came from being pushed to the edge.
"Copyright fraud investigation. They want to formally question me."
Just then, heavy knocking came from outside the door.
"Leo Vance, open up, FBI."
