Chapter 144: He look at me differently
The hours after Azazel left that day had been long, dragging like an endless evening that refused to settle into night.
Ava could still hear the echo of her own voice—sharp, raised, cutting into the air like a blade she could not sheath again. It wasn’t just the sound of her words that haunted her; it was the look on his face when she told him to leave.
The faint flicker of hurt in his eyes, the tension in his jaw as though he was trying to hold himself together, and then the silence—his silence—that followed.
Now, two weeks later, she sat restlessly in the wooden chair by her bedroom window, her knees pulled together and her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale.
Her eyes were fixed on the backyard garden, though the colors blurred before her.
The fading sunlight spilled across the flowers outside, tinting them with gold, but Ava barely noticed.
She sighed, her breath fogging faintly against the glass pane, before she whispered aloud, more to the emptiness than to herself:
"Probably he got scared... maybe even thinks I’m crazy."
Her voice wavered in the quiet, soft but trembling, as though speaking the words might make them more real.
She didn’t hear when someone entered.
The hinges gave only the faintest creak, and then the smell of lavender oil, her mother’s favorite, drifted into the room.
Ava’s thoughts had carried her far away, so deep into regret that the world around her became no more than shadows.
"Ava... Ava," a familiar voice called gently.
But she didn’t stir. She sat with her chin propped against her hand, her lips pressed together, her brows furrowed.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she only reacted when a warm hand touched her shoulder.
"Ah!" she gasped, twisting sharply, her eyes wide. Her heart leapt into her throat as though she had been caught doing something wrong.
"Sorry, my dear, I scared you," her mother said softly, her voice laced with apology and warmth.
Her kind brown eyes searched Ava’s face with concern.
She leaned slightly forward, crouching so she could look directly at her daughter. "What were you thinking of, dear love?"
Ava shook her head quickly, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
"Mom, please—have the seat." She gestured toward the chair she had just vacated as she moved quickly to sit on the edge of her bed, smoothing the sheets beneath her trembling fingers.
Her mother straightened slowly, her back stiff from bending, and then with quiet grace followed her daughter.
She ignored the chair entirely and instead sat beside Ava on the bed, the mattress dipping gently under her weight.
She reached out, stroking Ava’s hand with her thumb in soothing circles.
"Nothing, Mom," Ava said quietly, her eyes cast down, lashes fluttering as though she could hide the truth in their shadows.
Her mother tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile that carried no judgment, only patient insistence.
"Come now, Ava. Are you going to hide what you’re thinking from your own mother?" Her tone was gentle but firm, the way only a mother’s could be—both an invitation and a command.
Ava closed her eyes, exhaling long and heavy, her shoulders rising and falling like the weight of her secrets had finally grown unbearable.
She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek, before she finally looked up into her mother’s waiting eyes.
They were kind, steady, filled with the silent promise that nothing Ava said would change her love.
"Mom..." Her voice cracked. "I pity Azazel."
Her mother’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She only kept stroking Ava’s hand, the warmth of her palm grounding Ava like a tether.
Ava’s lips quivered as tears welled in her eyes. She bit down hard, trying to keep her voice steady, but the memories pushed throughout .
"I shouldn’t have shouted at him that way. I shouldn’t have been so cold... and asked him to get out." Her words broke, and tears spilled freely, trailing down her cheeks in trembling streams.
Her hands came up to cover her face as sobs shook her shoulders.
Her mother shifted closer, wrapping one arm around her daughter and pulling her gently against her chest. She kissed the top of Ava’s head, her lips lingering there like an anchor.
"Shhh, my love... it’s alright," she whispered, though she knew it wasn’t alright—not in Ava’s heart.
The memory replayed again and again in Ava’s mind, a cruel loop she couldn’t escape.
She remembered his startled expression when she raised her voice, the disbelief flashing in his eyes before it hardened into something distant.
His hands, which had been fidgeting nervously, stilled completely.
And then he turned, walked out of the house with a quiet dignity that hurt more than if he had shouted back.
That night, Ava had lain awake, staring at the ceiling.
The silence of her room had pressed heavily on her, so suffocating she had curled herself into a ball, whispering apologies to the dark as though it could deliver them to Azazel.
But he never came back. Two weeks had passed, and each night since then had been the same: empty, restless, haunted by regret.
Now, as she finally spoke it aloud, something inside her cracked open.
The heaviness she had carried in her chest shifted—lighter because she had shared it, yet heavier because admitting it made the pain more real.
"Mom," Ava whispered, her eyes red and glistening as she lifted her face from her mother’s embrace.
"It’s been two weeks. Two whole weeks. And every night I can’t sleep.
I just... I just keep hearing my voice telling him to leave. And then seeing his back as he walked out. It’s like it’s burned into me.
Her mother reached out, cupping her daughter’s tear-streaked face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing away the damp trails that clung stubbornly to Ava’s cheeks.
Her eyes softened, though a quiet seriousness lingered in them, the kind that only comes from years of knowing heartbreak and mistakes of her own.
"My sweet girl," she murmured, her voice low, steady, yet laced with warmth. "Don’t hate yourself. You were upset, you were hurt, and sometimes... sometimes anger makes us say things we regret. That doesn’t make you wicked—it makes you human."
Ava closed her eyes at those words, but fresh tears slipped out anyway. She shook her head faintly, lips trembling.
"But he looked at me, Mom... he looked at me like I was a stranger. And then he just left. He didn’t argue, he didn’t fight—he just walked away. And I let him go. I didn’t stop him."
Her voice broke again, the sob clawing out of her chest, raw and trembling.
Her mother drew her closer, holding her tight, one hand stroking her back in long, soothing motions.
Ava could feel the steady beat of her mother’s heart beneath her ear, like a grounding drum in the storm of her emotions.
Outside the window, the garden swayed in the evening breeze. The roses bent their heads, petals rustling softly, almost as if they were whispering comfort that Ava couldn’t quite hear.
The smell of damp earth drifted faintly through the open crack in the window, mingling with the lavender from her mother’s shawl.
After a long silence broken only by Ava’s quiet weeping, her mother pulled back slightly, searching her eyes again.
"Tell me, Ava," she said gently, "why did you shout at him that day? What was it you truly felt?"
Ava pressed her lips together, guilt flashing across her features.
She drew her knees up onto the bed, hugging them tightly, like a child clinging to safety.
"I was scared," she admitted in a whisper. Her voice was so low it was almost lost to the hum of the cicadas outside.
"Scared of how much I cared for him. Scared of how close he was getting to me. He... he sees me in a way no one else does, Mom. And it frightened me. So instead of letting him in, I pushed him away."
Her mother’s eyes glistened with understanding, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Ah, my dear... love often frightens us before it heals us. It’s like holding fire—you want its warmth, but you fear its burn.
But Azazel..." She paused, brushing a strand of Ava’s hair back tenderly. "Azazel does not strike me as a boy who would give up so easily, not if his feelings are real."
Ava’s chest tightened, hope flickering for a moment like a fragile flame. Yet the memory of his wounded eyes rose again, dimming it.
She buried her face against her knees, her voice muffled. "But what if I ruined it, Mom? What if he never forgives me?"
Her mother sighed softly, her hand smoothing down her daughter’s arm.
"Forgiveness begins with honesty, Ava. You’ve been punishing yourself in silence for two weeks. Perhaps it is time you speak to him instead of speaking only to your own regrets."
Ava lifted her head slowly, her eyes red-rimmed but shimmering with something new—fear mixed with longing.
She imagined Azazel’s face, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes always softened whenever he looked at her.
She remembered his quiet laughter, his unguarded moments. And then she remembered her voice—harsh, sharp, foreign—and her heart twisted.
"I don’t know if I’m strong enough," she whispered.
Her mother smiled then, the kind of smile that carried both mischief and wisdom.
She leaned forward, tapping Ava’s nose lightly with her finger. "My daughter, you are stronger than you believe.
And sometimes strength isn’t shouting or being fearless. Sometimes strength is simply saying, ’I was wrong. I’m sorry. I need you.’"
The words lodged in Ava’s chest, settling deep.
She stared at her mother, seeing not only the woman who raised her but the reflection of someone who had once been young and terrified of love too.
She could almost see her mother’s younger self in those eyes—someone who had made mistakes, who had also raised her voice once, and who had also learned that love requires humility.