Too Late For His Apology

Clara Holt POV:

The air in my lungs turned to ice. That notebook represented every inside joke, every shared secret, every late-night conversation I ever had with Joshua. It was my history with him, neatly compiled and handed over to my replacement.

I couldn' t breathe. I stood up so abruptly my chair scraped against the floor.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, my voice tight. "I need some air."

I didn' t wait for a response. I turned and walked, my movements stiff, my crutches clicking a frantic rhythm on the polished floor. I pushed through the heavy glass door and stumbled out into the cool night air, gulping it down like a drowning woman.

The pain in my leg was a dull, distant throb compared to the sharp, agonizing twist in my chest. I leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant, pressing my forehead against the cool, rough surface, trying to ground myself.

"Clara, wait!"

Joshua' s voice behind me. I heard the restaurant door swing open.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't look at him.

"Let her go," Future Joshua's voice was sharp, commanding. "She just needs a minute."

"No," Joshua said, his footsteps getting closer. "Clara-"

"Joshua, Amelia is feeling faint," Future Joshua cut in, his tone hardening. "The stress is too much for her. She needs to go home. Now."

Amelia, of course. Always Amelia. She was a weapon, her supposed fragility a shield her protectors used to keep me at a distance.

"She can take a cab," Joshua said, his voice strained. "I need to talk to Clara."

"And let her go home alone after what happened at the diner?" Future Joshua's voice was laced with derision. "Are you really that selfish?"

I heard Joshua's frustrated sigh. The sound of his internal battle was the soundtrack to my life now.

"I can get my own cab," I said, my voice flat, still facing the wall. I didn' t want his pity, his divided attention. I just wanted to be alone.

"No," he said, his voice suddenly right behind me. "I'm not leaving you here." He made a decision, a compromise that felt like another betrayal. "I'll take Amelia home, and then I'll come right back for you. We can go to my place. We'll talk. I promise. Just... wait for me here."

He didn't wait for my answer. He grabbed my arm, his grip insistent, and pulled me away from the wall, steering me toward a bench tucked into a small, shadowed alcove near the restaurant's side entrance. "Wait here. It's safer. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Tops."

He left me there, a piece of luggage to be retrieved later. I watched him walk back to the front of the restaurant, where Future Joshua was already helping a pale-looking Amelia into the passenger seat of Joshua' s car.

He got in the driver's side, gave me one last, conflicted look, and then drove away, disappearing into the darkness.

Leaving me alone. Again.

The alcove was dark, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp down the block. The minutes ticked by, stretching into an eternity. Twenty minutes came and went. Then thirty. Then an hour.

The night grew colder. The street, once busy with restaurant patrons, became deserted. A group of men stumbled out of a bar across the street, their laughter loud and aggressive. They spotted me, a lone girl on a dark bench.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" one of them slurred, his eyes lingering on the cast on my leg.

My blood ran cold. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers clumsy with fear. I needed to call someone. Anyone.

"Leave me alone," I said, my voice shaking.

They laughed, stepping closer, blocking the exit of the alcove. "Playing hard to get, huh? We like that."

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was trapped. My crutches were useless as a weapon. My mind screamed one name.

Joshua.

With trembling hands, I dialed his number. It rang once, twice, three times.

"Hello?" His voice was distracted, muffled.

"Joshua," I whispered, my voice choked with terror. "There are these guys... I'm scared. They won't leave me alone. Please, you have to come back."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could hear Amelia' s soft voice in the background, asking who it was.

"Clara, I..." he began, his voice strained. "I can't right now. Amelia's having a panic attack. She thinks her house is going to collapse in an aftershock. I'm trying to calm her down."

The excuse was so flimsy, so pathetic, it was like a physical blow.

"Joshua, please," I begged, tears streaming down my face as one of the men reached out and grabbed my arm. "I'm in trouble. Please."

"I... I have to go, Clara." His voice was distant, already gone.

The line went dead.

He hung up on me.

He chose her. In a moment of real, tangible danger, he chose her manufactured crisis over my actual one.

The phone slipped from my hand, hitting the concrete with a crack. The sound echoed the splintering of the last, microscopic shard of hope in my heart.

I tried his number again. It went straight to voicemail. He had turned his phone off.

The man holding my arm tightened his grip, his breath hot and smelling of stale beer on my neck. "No one's coming for you, sweetheart."

And in that moment of pure, undiluted terror, I knew he was right. Joshua wasn't coming. He had left me in the dark, and he wasn't coming back.