The Blindfold Game That Ended Us Chapter 08

The Blindfold Game That Ended Us Chapter 08

I didn’t play games. Didn’t make him guess. Didn’t blow up his phone when he

didn’t answer.

If he was in a bad mood and didn’t want to talk, I’d just sit quietly beside him,

turning pages so softly he barely heard them.

I was the one who taught him what it felt like to be loved without having to prove

anything.

So he’d pursued me.

It took six months. Then they were together.

But before it was official, before he had to admit it to the world, he wanted to keep it

between them.

Maybe it was about proving something. After chasing Olivia so hard and getting nowhere, here was someone who fell into his life without resistance.

He wanted to hold onto that quietly. To prove that he could be loved without trying. That the broke kid who couldn’t compete with rich guys back then was worth being

chosen now.

And then it became habit.

Keeping me hidden. Keeping me waiting. Every time I said “maybe we should tell people…” he had an answer, “Not yet. Just wait a little longer.”

He never thought it would be eight years.

Eight years.

It hit him suddenly how unfair he’d been to me.

I’d never complained. Never pushed. Never threatened to leave.

The one time I did anything close to “making a scene” was at the reunion, when I

said I was getting married. And even then, I’d framed it as something casual, something

that wouldn’t embarrass him.

Eight years. They should have had an answer by now.

But I’d been so careful not to ask for too much that I’d ended up having to announce my own wedding just to get his attention.

He stared at the ceiling, and for the first time, he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

He picked up his phone and texted me. No response.

I’d always been gentle, but I had my stubborn side.

Maybe he’d gone too far at the reunion.

Under the cloth, he’d felt the scar. He’d known it was my hand. But he’d chosen

someone else anyway.

The hand he’d actually wanted to hold, he’d been watching it from the moment

someone suggested the game. Her nails. The jewelry she wore. The shape of her fingers.

He’d picked her out perfectly.

He’d thought it was just a game. A chance to finally, openly, take the hand he’d been too afraid to reach for in high school. A chance to indulge a private desire he’d never let

himself satisfy.

He’d thought I’d understand.

What he hadn’t considered was that it was the first time in eight years he’d held my

hand out so straight.

I was afraid. Afraid of not being chosen.

And he’d forgotten that I could hurt, too.

In the days that followed, he didn’t message me.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because he didn’t know what to say.

“Just come home, stop being dramatic”? But wasn’t I allowed to be dramatic for

once?

“I miss you”? He couldn’t even admit they were together. What right did he have to

miss her?

What I wanted was the wedding. The one I’d set for Saturday.

But it was too soon. How could he say that without sounding like he was making

excuses?

Olivia stayed quiet those days. Kept to herself. Didn’t push.

Liam went to work. Came home. Stared at the empty living room.

Friday night, he lay in bed scrolling through his phone.

He opened my contact. Hesitated.

Then he typed: [Emma. I’m sorry. I lied about my birthday. I’ll come get you Saturday. We’ll talk to your parents together. Okay?]

He hit send, expecting silence. Or maybe anger.

Instead, he got a red exclamation mark.

He stared at it for a long time.

A knot tightened in his chest.

I’d never done this before. When they fought, I’d go quiet for a few days. Then he’d send a message, and I’d respond.

He’d thought that was how it would always be. That I’d always be there. Always

wait. Always forgive.

But I’d blocked him.