behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

HARPER

Isaiah called last night. 3:23 a.m.
So wasted I could barely understand half the things spilling out of his mouth. Slurred apologies, recycled promises. A voice I used to know like a second skin, now foreign and hazy like a dream I don't want to remember.

"I need you," he said.
"My coworkers miss you."
"I made a mistake."
"I love you."
"Let's get married."
"I can give you a baby."

He said it all like it was supposed to fix something. Like the fact that I had someone else's breath on the back of my neck—warm, steady—didn't matter. Like I hadn't spent the last few days watching someone fight through pain just to breathe, just to smile. Just to stay.
I picked up because I didn't want the sound waking her.
She'd finally fallen asleep, tangled in my arms like she belonged there. Like I did too.

I slipped out of bed so carefully I barely breathed. I didn't know I was shaking until the hallway light caught my hands.

"Harper," he whined, and I could already hear it—his manipulation dressed in nostalgia. "You always made everything better. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I'll fix it."

I let the silence hang long enough for my heart to stop sprinting.

"You don't get to do this anymore," I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—someone stronger. "You don't get to call me in the middle of the night and throw your life at me like it's mine to carry. It never was. I just didn't know how to say no before."

He laughed. Or maybe scoffed. "So that's it? You're just... done?"

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, stepped back so Millie wouldn't hear me. My voice came out quieter this time. But not weaker. "You made me small, Isaiah. For years. You didn't love me—you loved having someone who'd never ask you for anything back. You loved the way I kept folding."

"You're being dramatic," he snapped, and there it was. That sharp edge. The one I used to convince myself was just passion. Intensity. Love.

But it wasn't. It never was.

"You don't know what love is," I said. And my voice cracked—there, finally, the truth of it. "If you did, you wouldn't have waited until I left to realize what you had."

There was quiet. And then that sound. The one that made me feel sick: his soft voice, almost a whimper. "I still love you, Harper."

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the wall, and thought of her—of warm skin against mine. The way she said my name when she was half-asleep. The quiet strength in her shoulders even when she was in pain. Her hoodie wrapped around my body. Her hand brushing mine on accident and not pulling away.

"No," I whispered. "You don't. Not the way I need to be loved."

It was the first time I'd ever said that out loud. I hung up before I could cry. But I did anyway.

I cried for the years I gave him. For the way I let myself get small. For the times I said sorry when I should've screamed. For the version of me I'm still trying to grow back into.

And this morning, I cried because the hospital where my mom is called.

It was just after seven. I stepped into the hallway so I wouldn't wake her. Millie was still asleep, her arm curled around the pillow I'd just been lying on. Her lashes resting soft against her cheeks. She looked younger in sleep. Untouchable. Like the outside world hadn't touched her yet.