He Loved Me When I Let Go / Chapter 2: Rival Hearts and Shattered Glass
He Loved Me When I Let Go

He Loved Me When I Let Go

Author: Alicia Newton

Chapter 2: Rival Hearts and Shattered Glass

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With a bang, the slamming door made me flinch. I pressed a hand to my chest, heart thudding. His words hung in the air, sharp as ever:

"Savannah Brooks, you're ruthless!"

I made his beloved unhappy. Now, he probably hates me even more. Maybe that was always going to be the end of it.

I let out a shaky breath, the silence pressing in on all sides. Whatever. Let him hate me.

I couldn't help but reach up and touch my neck. The mosquito bites stung—a nasty reminder of how things just kept piling up. I heard there are even more in Africa. Guess I’d better pack extra bug spray.

I made a mental note to grab the extra-strong stuff from the pharmacy. Because if there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s more bites—or more scars.

During flu season, the hospital was a madhouse. I pulled a bunch of night shifts and, of course, ended up sick myself.

The ER was chaos—kids wailing, phones ringing, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. I barely had time to breathe, let alone eat. When it finally slowed down, I took some time off and went home to crash.

Half-asleep, I had a dream. It felt so real, I woke up with my heart pounding.

I dreamed I was tied up in an abandoned warehouse. A man with a vicious face loomed over me.

The smell of gasoline and rust burned my nose. He sneered, "Your dad ruined my life, so now I'm gonna ruin his."

The moment he unbuckled his belt, the warehouse door exploded open with a crash.

The hinges screamed. A young man strode toward me, backlit by harsh light, his voice lazy as ever—like nothing could rattle him.

"Hey, don't worry. I'm here."

All I remember is, in the end, blood ran down from his head. It dripped down, staining his white shirt bright red.

It was so bright, the red—like a warning flare. I couldn’t look away. When they put him in the ambulance, a ring rolled out of his pocket, along with a love letter that had never been sent.

...

When I woke up, the room was dim and eerily quiet. Slivers of light fell in patches on the floor through the curtains. For a second, I just lay there, the emptiness pressing down on me.

The quiet was almost suffocating. I stared at the ceiling, then grabbed my phone and called Mason.

After a long wait, he finally answered. His voice was cold as ice. It cut right through me.

"What is it?" There was no warmth at all.

I sniffled. "I'm not feeling well." I sounded so small, even to myself.

My voice barely made it out. "If you're sick, see a doctor. Why are you calling me?"

His tone was sharp, dismissive. But... I kind of miss you too. The words slipped out before I could stop them. I hated how weak I sounded.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My heart thudded in my chest. After a brief pause, his tone grew even more impatient:

"Savannah, you really are sick."

I mumbled, "So mean. It's been three years—can't you be a little gentle?" The words felt pathetic, but I couldn’t help it.

I pressed the phone to my ear, waiting for something—anything. He hung up on me without another word. The silence after was almost worse than the coldness.

The line went dead. My chest tightened. For a moment, I just sat there, stunned.

The old Mason would never have hung up on me. Not the Mason I used to know.

I clutched my phone and stared at it for a long time, dazed. My mind was blank.

The screen dimmed, the room closing in around me. Before I knew it, I fell asleep again. The exhaustion was bone-deep.

When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. My head ached, and the world felt fuzzy.

The sheets were stiff, the air tinged with antiseptic. I blinked, trying to clear my head. Looking up, I saw a tall figure standing by the window.

Maybe he heard me stir—Mason turned around. His dark eyes were unreadable, his face blank and closed off.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The silence stretched between us. Finally, he spoke in a low voice:

"Did you have fun?"

His words landed like a slap. "What?" I blinked, confused and a little hurt.

He walked over, looking down at me, sarcasm dripping from his voice:

"So, was hurting yourself fun for you?"

His gaze was sharp, almost cruel. I felt my throat tighten. I forced myself to meet his eyes, searching for something—anything.

"You think I... caught a cold on purpose?" My voice wavered, part disbelief, part exhaustion.

I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "Didn't you?" he shot back, eyes hard.

I was stunned for a second, then let out a dry, brittle laugh. It didn’t sound like me.

"You're right."

The words tasted bitter. I forced a smile, trying to keep my voice steady. "If I don't use tricks, how can I get you to come back? I didn't expect you'd actually fall for it. Looks like you still care about me!"

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