Too Late For His Apology

Clara Holt POV:

Terror was a cold, slick thing, coating my skin and stealing my breath. One of the men grabbed for my purse, and my instincts took over. I swung my crutch, connecting with his head with a satisfying thud. He staggered back, cursing.

But there were three of them. His friends lunged forward, their faces twisted with anger. I was cornered, my back against the cold brick. This was it. This was how it ended. Betrayed and alone in a dark alley.

Suddenly, tires screeched. A car door slammed.

"Hey! Get away from her!" a voice yelled.

A man, a stranger, ran toward us. He was just an ordinary guy in a nondescript sedan, probably on his way home from work. But tonight, he was a hero. The menacing group hesitated, caught in the glare of his headlights. Seeing they had lost the element of surprise and were no longer dealing with a lone, injured girl, they muttered a few more curses and melted back into the shadows.

"Are you okay?" the stranger asked, his face etched with concern as he helped me up.

I could only nod, my body trembling so violently I could barely stand. He helped me into his car, the worn fabric of the passenger seat a small, unexpected comfort. I was still shaking when he dropped me off at my parents' house, the only place I could think to go.

I managed to choke out a thank you before stumbling inside, the events of the night playing on a horrifying loop in my mind. I collapsed on the couch, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a bone-deep ache of fear and betrayal. I vomited into the trash can, my body rebelling against the terror it had just endured.

My phone buzzed. A text from Joshua.

Hey, u ok? Sorry about that. Amelia really freaked out. Talk tomorrow.

That was it. No frantic calls. No "I'm on my way." Just a casual, dismissive text, as if I' d called him about a broken nail.

He didn't text again that night. He didn't call the next day.

Instead, Future Joshua resumed his psychological torture. He sent me a constant stream of photos and videos. Joshua, sleeping on Amelia's sofa, a "vigilant protector." Joshua, making Amelia breakfast, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried not to burn the toast. Joshua, holding her hand as they walked through a park, his head bent toward her, listening intently.

Every image was a new twist of the knife. I remembered all the times he'd done those things for me. Waking up to find him in the armchair in my hospital room after I had my appendix out. The lopsided, burnt pancakes he'd made me for my seventeenth birthday. The way he used to look at me, as if I were the only person in the world.

He was re-enacting our love story with another actress. And according to him, I was the one who was "strong" and "independent." I didn't need him. The words, once a compliment, now felt like a curse.

A week later, he showed up at my parents' door. He brought flowers-the wrong kind-and a torrent of apologies. "I'm so sorry, Clara. I messed up. I should have been there for you."

He tried to hug me, but I stood rigid in his arms. He promised it would never happen again. He said he would make it right. He even pulled out two plane tickets to a concert in New York we were supposed to go to, a pathetic, expensive peace offering.

I was so tired. So emotionally exhausted that I just nodded, letting him pull me into his plans. A part of me, a stupid, stubborn part, still wanted to believe him.

He was taking me to dinner. "Just us," he'd promised.

When I walked out to his car, Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat. Future Joshua was leaning against the hood, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"Amelia was feeling down," Joshua explained, his eyes pleading with me to understand. "I thought a nice meal would cheer her up. You don't mind, do you?"

I didn't answer. I just got in the back seat, the silence heavy with everything I couldn't say.

At the arcade next to the restaurant, for a few fleeting moments, it almost felt normal. He was focused on me, his hand warm on the small of my back as he guided me to our favorite racing game. He remembered how I liked to swerve at the last second. He laughed his real laugh, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

I felt a flicker of the old warmth, a ghost of the love I was desperately trying to mourn. Maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back.

"Let's play ski-ball," he said, his eyes bright with a spark of the old Joshua. "Winner gets to pick the movie tonight."

"No," a cold voice interrupted. Future Joshua had materialized beside him, Amelia hovering in his shadow. "Amelia wants to play the claw machine. She wants the little purple octopus."

Joshua's smile faltered. "We can do that next, I just-"

"Now, Joshua," Future Joshua commanded. "You know how much she loves that octopus."

An argument started, the same one they always had. Joshua, trying to divide himself between his past and his mandated future. Future Joshua, relentlessly pushing him toward Amelia.

And then, disaster struck again.

A rickety, overloaded shelving unit at the back of the arcade, burdened with dusty trophies and old electronics, gave a loud groan. It teetered for a moment, then crashed forward.

Right toward Joshua.

I screamed his name. But I was too far away, trapped by my crutches.

Amelia moved like lightning. She threw herself at Joshua, shoving him out of the way. The heavy shelf came crashing down, catching her arm. She cried out, a sharp scream of pain, and collapsed.

Joshua's face went white with terror. He scrambled to her side, his voice a frantic whisper. "Amelia? Amelia, are you okay? Say something!"

She lay on the ground, cradling her arm, her face pale and beaded with sweat. "I'm okay," she breathed, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "I just... I couldn't let it hit you."

It was the most dramatic, self-sacrificing thing I had ever seen.

I waited. I waited for him to look at me, to check if I was okay, to acknowledge that I was even in the room.

He didn't. His entire world had shrunk to the small, crumpled figure on the floor. He gathered her into his arms, his touch infinitely gentle, and held her as if she were made of spun glass.

My heart, which I thought had run out of ways to break, found one more. It didn't shatter this time. It just went silent. It was the complete and utter stillness of death.

He had made his choice. In the chaos and the dust, he had made his final, definitive choice.

And it wasn't me.