Chapter 4 The Cost of Curiosity

The next time Layla saw him, it was raining. Not a gentle, rhythmic drizzle, but the kind that blurred the skyline and slammed down with the weight of something unsaid. It soaked through coats, through skin, through memory. She should've been used to storms by now- she carried one in her chest daily- but this one unsettled her. She should've walked past him. Pretended she didn't notice the tall, soaked silhouette waiting just at the alley's edge near her building. But her legs hesitated. He was there. Zayden.

Coat drenched, curls clinging to his forehead, hands tucked in his pockets like he wasn't standing in the middle of a downpour. Like he belonged to it. Like he was.

She didn't run. But she didn't walk closer either. "I thought we weren't doing this," she said, her voice low, fighting the rain. "You thought wrong," he answered, unmoving. "Following me?" she asked. "Watching over you," he corrected, and the calm in his tone sent a ripple down her spine. "You're not a saviour, Zayden." "No," he said. "But neither are you the villain you pretend to be." That hit deeper than it should have. Not because it wasn't true, but because he said it like he knew the full cost of her pretending.

He stepped toward her. Once. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to make her heartbeat shift. "What do you want from me?" she demanded. "The truth." She gave a breath that wasn't a laugh. "You wouldn't survive it." "I'd still want it." The silence wrapped tighter. Something passed between them-something wordless, hot, unsettling. She turned away, not in retreat but because if she looked at him too long, she might start to believe he could hold what was left of her. "I've bled for silence, Zayden," she murmured. "Don't tempt me to trade it for noise."

That night, she didn't sleep. Her apartment was too quiet, too still, and her thoughts turned against her. The notebook on her desk stared at her, the blank page mocking the chaos in her head. She flipped it closed. Walked to the mirror. Took off the mask. The face staring back was hers, but the eyes felt foreign- too tired, too guarded, too haunted. Then her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She picked up without thinking.

"Layla," his voice said. Calm. Intentional. "I'm outside." She crossed to the window, the curtain drawn halfway. He was across the street, no umbrella, no coat this time- just Zayden, soaked again in the rain, waiting. "You said knowing won't save me," he said into the silence. "But what if I don't want to save?" Her heart stuttered. "Then I hope you're ready to burn," she whispered and ended the call.

She opened the door. He stepped in. No words. No mask. No space left between the storm outside and the tension inside. He didn't move far-just past the threshold-but the room shifted with him, like it was holding its breath. He glanced around her space, at the bare walls, the clean desk, and the untouched mask. "You hide everything," he said. "Even when you're standing still." She raised her chin slightly. "What do you see?" "A girl who wants to be left alone," he said. "But leaves the door unlocked anyway." That one line hit harder than anything else had. She swallowed. "Why are you here?" she asked, almost hoarse.

Zayden stepped closer. Just one pace. "Because I want to know the version of you that doesn't survive. The one that just exists." Her breath caught. That version didn't exist anymore. It had been buried years ago beneath fear and fire. She whispered, "I don't exist, Zayden. I endure." He tilted his head, eyes locked on her. "And you think that's all you deserve?" She stared him down. "Yes."

They didn't kiss. They didn't touch. But the air between them felt electric, dangerous, and far too close to something that couldn't be undone. He left without another word. She stood long after the door closed, her fingers trembling. The mask lay untouched. The rain still whispered against the window.

The silence after him wasn't quiet.

It was deafening.

It echoed through every corner of the apartment, bouncing off cold walls and creeping into the cracks she thought were sealed shut. Her chest tightened, not from the memories of him, but from the unbearable weight of what lingered in his absence. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, like it was holding its breath just waiting for her to break.

She wanted to scream into the void, to shatter the stillness with something-anything. But no sound came. Only the faint, persistent drip of rain from the eaves outside.

The mask sat on the table, pale under the soft light, almost fragile. It had been her shield, her escape. A barrier between the woman she was and the woman she feared to become without it. She'd worn it like armour for so long she had forgotten what it felt like to be seen without it. To be vulnerable. To be exposed.

And yet, tonight, she wanted to touch it. To feel it against her skin, the cold smoothness that had hidden her from the world. But her fingers hovered above it, trembling, unsure if she wanted to bury herself back into that concealment or finally face the world unmasked. The truth was, after tonight, the mask felt less like protection and more like a prison.

She swallowed hard, fighting back a tide of emotions that refused to be named-fear, longing, regret. She thought she'd prepared herself for this. She thought she'd trained her heart to stay silent, to remain untouched by a man like Zayden. But the ache that clung to her muscles, the ghost of his touch that burned on her skin, told a different story. It whispered that maybe, just maybe, she had let something slip through her carefully guarded defences.

The room was darkening now, the only light coming from the city beyond her window, flickering like distant stars. The rain softened, no longer a harsh storm but a gentle murmur, as if the world itself was trying to soothe the chaos inside her.

She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the city didn't care about her struggles, her secrets, or the war raging inside her chest. It moved forward, indifferent and unyielding.

The truth was, she didn't know what to do next. She had spent so many years building walls around herself, creating a fortress of silence and shadows. But tonight, those walls had cracks-wide, dangerous cracks that threatened to let everything spill out.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, desperate for some kind of control. Zayden had walked into her life like a storm, tearing down pieces of her she thought were untouchable. He wasn't like the others-he saw through the mask, into the darkness she kept hidden. And for all her efforts, she had let him in.

That mistake, if it was one, would cost her more than she could imagine.

She remembered the way he had looked at her, not with pity or curiosity, but with a hunger that matched her own-a hunger she tried so hard to deny. It was in his eyes that silent claim he made, the way his presence filled the room and made her forget everything else.

Her breath hitched, and she pulled away from the window, pacing the length of the room. The mask beckoned again, and this time she reached for it, fingers curling around its edges. It felt heavier than before, as if it carried all the secrets she was too afraid to speak.

Her reflection caught her eye, half-hidden by the mask, half-bared and vulnerable. Who was she without it? The question lingered, unanswered and mocking.

She dropped the mask onto the table and sank into the chair, head in her hands. The silence pressed on her like a living thing, filling the space with its unrelenting weight.

A sudden knock at the door startled her. Her heart leapt into her throat, but it was only the wind, or maybe her imagination playing tricks. The storm outside was calming, but the tempest inside her raged on.

She thought about the choices ahead. To hide forever behind the mask, safe but alone. Or to step out into the light, unmasked and exposed, with all the risk that entailed.

Her phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with his name. She didn't answer. Not yet. Not while her mind was tangled in doubt and fear.

Instead, she stared at the mask once more, tracing the worn edges with trembling fingers. It had been her armour, yes. But maybe it was also her cage.

She had to decide-was she willing to break free, even if it meant falling?

Because some walls, once cracked, couldn't be repaired.

And some doors, once opened, could never be closed again.

She had to.