Chapter 12

"Would you come to see me?"

Rey never thought she'd see her own face in a magazine, especially with one of Hollywood's greatest trending actors during a particularly intimate and emotionally charged moment between them.

The same picture of Kylo cradling her face in the middle of JFK has been circulating the social pages of magazines and the covers of tabloids for months. His disheveled hair falls in strands over his dark eyes, but does little to hide the pleading expression beneath. Her hand is wrapped around his wrist as if to tug it away, but her features speak clearly of the dilemma tearing her to pieces.

Looking at the photograph hurts exactly the same every single time.

It's always followed by a small article, repeating facts about who she is and where she comes from, what she does for a living, and how she came about working for him—as well as various speculations on the role she played in the actor's life. According to them, she might be the reason behind his final breakup with Jessica Pava—a secret love affair with his hairdresser being the catalyst behind the Hollywood engagement falling apart, and the subsequent disappearance of the actor from the public eye for the last seven months.

Rey's profile is not painted in the best of colors.

There are days where she despises that picture. Sometimes it's because of who they make her out to be, and how little it has to do with what truly went down between them. To say she's beginning to understand what it's like to walk in his shoes would be an understatement. Other times, it reminds her of how close she came to finding love, and how much of a coward she was to throw it all away. But other days it gives her purpose. Something to hold on to and dream about in her struggle to fix what has been broken inside her for as long as she can remember. Or mend it enough, at least, to be functional again.

Rey holds no illusions. Broken things can never pretend to be new.

If she is ever given a new opportunity for a relationship—and God knows what she wouldn't give for that to happen with Kylo— she wants to do it right this time. No more hiding. No more secrets. No more fears and prejudices.

The discussion she had with Leia on her flight to London rings in her ears even months later - and for good reason. It didn't take long to figure out who she was. A handful of hours searching the internet revealed a good part of Kylo's past, along with pictures of his family and more private information about him than she would have previously felt comfortable finding out. His mother had gone out of her way to meet with her, to talk to her and verify what her son had been trying to show Rey all along—only she refused to see...

His mother hinted there was still hope. But Rey doesn't know what to believe. She will never, ever forget the pain she saw in his eyes when she turned him down at the airport—

Rey presses her lips together as she stares at the picture of her and Kylo on this month's edition of Us magazine, fingers wrinkling the shiny, glossed-up pages. There's an article commenting on Kylo Ren's noticeable absence from this year's Cannes film festival. Rey couldn't help but snatch the magazine from the newsstand and devour it at the first opportunity. She is seated in the small, empty waiting room of her therapist's office in Boston, on a late summer evening. It has been a hot and humid day, the kind of day that the decades-old AC unit can do little to combat, and Rey is already not in the best of moods. At the desk across from her Dr. Emett's secretary, Zorii Bliss, continues to type, oblivious to the turmoil rising in the room. Her appointment with the therapist is coming up soon, and Rey knows the session will not go well today. It never does when she comes across news about him.

"Is there another picture of you in there?"

Rey's attention turns to Zorii. She's smiling with her eyes still on the screen in front of her, fingers flying over the keyboard. Rey swears she must have eyes on the back of her head.

"Yeah, the usual one," she says, shutting the magazine and tossing it on the glass coffee table across from her. "Apparently, there's still a lot to say about the two of us. According to this week's rumors, I'm to blame for digging my claws into Kylo Ren and dragging him into some super secretive religious cult. That's the only sane explanation, I guess, as to why he barely makes any red carpet appearances anymore."

Zorii snorts. "Well, that's a good one. At least he hasn't gotten abducted by aliens yet."

"I came across an article somewhere saying that he had —yes."

Zorii pauses typing for a second with a shake of her head. "Anyway… What else does it say?"

"Nothing much really."

"Then why did you buy it?"

Rey winces. It's not as if she can deny her obsession. She never bothered collecting articles in the past. "I— needed something to read on the subway on my way here, and since there wasn't really anything else interesting on the newsstand, I figured...You're shaking your head again. Is it at me?"

"You know what 's opinion is about them and how they affect you."

"So what—I'm not allowed to buy a gossip magazine to pass the time?"

"Rey, how many magazines have you bought till now with that picture in there?"

Rey hesitates a second. She knows where Zorii's going with this. "Magazines with this particular picture, or magazines about him in general?"

Zorii tears her eyes from the screen for the first time and stops typing altogether - which is a rare enough occurrence to make Rey squirm in her seat.

"Does it make a difference?" Zorii asks, raising an eyebrow.

Any number Rey says out of the top of her head will probably be false. There are more magazines than she can count tucked under her bed. "Too many for it to be a healthy habit."

"Don't you think it would save you a lot of money if you called him and met with him in person, rather than collecting magazines with his face instead? You still have his number, right?"

"It's not that simple, Zorii… And for your information, I haven't bought one in weeks."

The secretary sighs, taking off her glasses and placing them on a leaning tower of scattered reports that still need to be filed. Rey honestly wonders how she manages to do her work and squeeze in enough time to help a patient assemble the scraps of her love life.

"I don't understand what it is you're waiting for, Rey. If what you say is true about him— and it seems to me that it is—he might be waiting for you to be the one to make the first move." Zorii points out. "Why won't you call him? Are you still afraid you aren't ready?"

"We all know damn well I'm not," Rey says, unable to hide her frustration. She rubs her forehead. They have been over this a million times. She hates coming across the same old deadends. "I wouldn't even be here for sessions if I was ready to face him. Or face any man out there willing to be in a relationship with me, without me stomping all over their heart first!"

A long silence falls between them while Zorii studies her with tightly pressed lips. She suddenly gets off her seat, legs scraping against the linoleum, and crosses the empty waiting room to sit on the wooden Ikea chair next to Rey's couch.

Rey knows what this means.

Dr. Emett has always been polite and cordial to her. He always knows when to push Rey's limits and when to remain silent and provide a listening ear. He coerces truths out of her she had never been aware she had been hiding, giving her the time she needs to explore her mechanisms of defense and discover what is holding her back. One could say Dr. Emett is helping her make progress on many aspects of her life, for the first time ever.

All except for one.

Degrees and credentials are essential in this line of work, experience too. But sometimes there is only so much an overworked, underpaid therapist can do with Rey's kind of trust issues. She never thought the one person she would be opening up to the most would be his secretary. The metaphorical mirror Zorii holds to her face does not cover up her fears in any way.

Zorii picks up the magazine and holds it out, forcing Rey to look at the picture she loves to resent so much. "Rey, we have gone over this so many times. It's not your fear of intimacy that's holding you back. It's because you're too afraid of being rejected by him if you suddenly appear in front of his face, asking to pick up where the two of you had left off seven months ago," she says in a breath. "Reverting to your previous fears will get you nowhere."

Rey averts her eyes.

"What is it exactly that you're waiting for, sweetie?" Zorii presses on, leaning in to catch her eyes. "Is it a sign from him? A sign he's still interested, or a sign he has moved on?"

Rey shrugs, and bites her lip. Zorii has asked her this before and Rey wasn't able to answer the question then, any more than she is now. She takes the magazine from her and begins to flip absently through the pages.

What is she searching for in them, anyway? Zorii is right. It can't be the picture at the airport. Memories have only held her back, she knows that well by now. Could she really be searching for a sign then? A sign he has finally gotten over her, scratched her name from his heart, and moved on to another woman? Is this what she's expecting a Hollywood star to do?

Βecause if that's the case, then where is the progress she's supposed to be making?

Something in the magazine catches her eye.

Her fingers tremble slightly as she slowly flips back to a page she saw. There's an advert of an upcoming Broadway play taking up most of that page, glossy black with a striking white skull in the center. A number of well-known actors and actresses are featured in the ad, but the name at the top is what makes her heart begin to race.

She looks up, meeting Zorii's eyes.

"Are you alright?" Zorii says, concerned. "You look pale all of a sudden. Should I get you some water?"

"He's returning to the theater," Rey mutters, too thunderstruck to say anything more intelligible. She turns the magazine over and points at the advert, hoping Zorii will remember their talks, and put two and two together. "He hasn't been in a play in a decade and now he's returning. He's going to be in Hamlet!"

She flips it over and continues to stare at it as if the name could jump out of the pages and turn into a man. As if that man could clasp her face between his large, strong hands, and look at her with eyes torn between boyish excitement and raw vulnerability, saying yes Rey— this is what you have been waiting for...

"Would you come to see me?"

Rey clutches at the magazine as if her life depends on it.

"Seems to me like you might have your sign, girl!" Zorii laughs next to her.

.

.

.

Rey has only ever seen Hamlet on TV with Mel Gibson as the protagonist.

She remembers reviews saying his version was surprisingly well played and was considered to be one of the top performances of all time. She wishes she had an opinion on the matter. Τhe only version of Hamlet she ever had to compare him to was the one she read in her English Literature class in high school, and she barely remembers anything about that. Any potential interest in literature she could have had in life got ground to dust somewhere between the inadequacy and neglect of her foster home, and the practicalities of survival in New York.

She simply never had time for it.

She does know enough about Hamlet, though, to understand that any actor who attempts to portray the main character on the plank of a theater is setting their acting skills under a critic's microscope, and might very well be putting their career at risk. Anything could go wrong in front of a live audience. A line could be forgotten, or a sudden trip over one's feet could bring half the stage down. There are no reshoots of scenes or second chances if one screws up.

Rey has read what happened to Kylo ten years ago. She understands the impact that night had on him. The critics weren't exactly kind in their reviews— him being the nephew of Luke Skywalker, Broadway's leading director and all—despite the fact that the production was relatively small and insignificant at the time.

Hamlet is crucial to him.

She couldn't not be here tonight.

"Kylo Ren is going to look so hot as Hamlet!" A young woman seated in back of her says to a friend. "I've been dying to see him perform live—"

"I know! I know!" A squeal of excitement follows, piercing Rey's ear. "I can't wait to meet him at the stage door when the play's done!"

Rey rolls her eyes and flips through the program in her hands, tuning out the two women. She tries hard not to eavesdrop on the conversations around her but the theater is so packed for the premiere she thinks the floor will give out. Broadway Theatre is not one that gets filled easily.

He must be so nervous.

She can picture him pacing his dressing room, cigarette in hand, reciting lines under his breath, and trying but failing spectacularly not to run his hand through his hair. She was always there for last-minute corrections, taming rebellious strands and smoothing his thick waves. Trying to take a bit of anxiety off his shoulders. She never realized how much she would miss their daily chats while he sat obediently under her comb—or his stolen glances at her while she pretended not to see...

Was it hard for him to replace her? Does he ever think of her when someone else runs their fingers through his hair?

Does it feel different?

It's impossible not to wonder...

An older couple takes their respective seats next to Rey, making small talk about the play, and tearing her away from memories that are too deeply carved in her heart to ignore. She clears her throat and continues to flip through the program, trying to get absorbed in what she's reading. The couple seems to be excited about the play, and especially in Kylo Ren's performance —his stage fright ten years ago being well known within the theatrical circles. Interestingly enough, they are here to compare today's play with the one they had seen in 1992 with Stephen Lang.

"...too young to be attempting to portray such a character…" is what the husband seems to believe as he pushes his glasses up his nose. He holds the program a good foot away from his face and squints in order to read better. "Says here he's only thirty-four, Martha. Did you know that? Practically a boy!"

"I don't think Laurence Olivier was much older when he played Hamlet, dear. And you never liked his version either."

"I never said I didn't like it. I simply believe Christopher Plummer's was better."

"Well, he wasn't bad," the wife comments casually while draping her coat over her shoulders. "But I have to say Jude Law is the one I enjoyed the most. He made a very passionate Hamlet."

Rey notices the older woman trying to conceal a smile as her husband stares at her appalled. She tries to suppress her own smile from showing.

The couple continues to debate until the lights begin to dim. Rey settles into the red velvet seat feeling her heart begin to hammer. Soon enough the heavy front curtain is pulled open to reveal the stage, and two soldiers pacing under the spotlights. The murmuring of the audience instantly subsides. Someone coughs.

Rey strains to follow the dialogue spoken in Old English, all the while trying to control the anticipation beating wildly in her chest. She's minutes away from seeing him for the first time in seven months, and suddenly staying away from him for so long feels stupid. What if he has found someone else in the meantime, and she's with him backstage right this minute? What if he introduces her to Rey when she sees him at the end of the play?

What then?

Rey begins to chew her thumbnail, another bad habit she has picked up.

Kylo doesn't appear until Act II. It takes her a moment to spot him. He seems so thin dressed in mourning black, and even from this distance she can tell his face is tired and drawn. Only his hair remains the same way as she remembers it, long and unruly. He is so lost in thought, she wonders for a split second if it's part of the performance - or if this is how he has truly been for the last months.

She shuts her eyes, chiding herself.

Of course, it's part of the play. He's in a damn tragedy. What else does she expect?

When he delivers his first line, Rey finds herself hanging from his lips for the remainder of the night. She swallows every gesture, every fluctuation of voice, every eye contact he has with the crowd. She gets immersed in the play, eyes and ears and senses standing on edge as the characters in flesh and blood speak to her, dragging her into their world of scheming, obsession and madness.

Hamlet's famous soliloquy on death is delivered by him in a low voice, its characteristic deep shade a veil barely concealing his emotions, filling every dark crevice of the theater and making the air quiver. Glassy eyes sparkle in the darkness as all attention is seized by the subtle strength of his performance. Even the quarreling couple next to her becomes silent.

Rey realizes she is holding her breath.

It all seems so clear suddenly—what a thin line actors walk on. How difficult it must be to exist between two worlds. To keep such powerful characters from overwhelming them.

'Look… Look hard now…' Somewhere deep inside her a voice implores. 'Do you see what it takes? Are you truly willing to carry this burden with me?'

Rey blinks tears away.

The final act is unleashed like a hurricane, swords and poison wiping one character away after the other in true Shakespearean fashion, leaving devastation and death behind. When the tragic hero falls, Rey's eyes are swimming in tears and any last hesitations she might have had dissipate with his last breath on stage.

She wants him.

Both sides of him, the artistic and the ordinary and all the shades in between. She wants to see his morning smile still hazy with sleep. She wants to taste his tears and live his frustrations, watch him dazzle cameras and captivate crowds. She wants to help keep his feet solidly on the ground, and his heart cocooned in her hands and his soul free to explore, and —who knows? —maybe somewhere along the way, on his side, she too can finally be set free...

The lights are suddenly turned on. The theater vibrates from clapping, members of the audience are standing up and some are even whistling. Rey remains glued to her chair, too overcome to return to reality.

The couple next to her claps vividly with smiles on their faces.

It's not until she sees Kylo in the middle of the stage bowing to the audience with a smile of relief on his face, and hands clasped tightly to his comrades that she realizes the play is over. His eyes scan the crowd.

Her heart flutters.

Could he be searching for her?

Rey rises from her seat and wipes at her cheeks. She claps so much her palms begin to sting.

.

.

.

She's determined to speak to him. Even if in the end it might lead to nowhere.

It turns out backstage is off-limits in every sense of the word, and no matter how much she pleads with security, trying to reasonably explain that she really is a close friend to Kylo Ren and not just an ordinary fan claiming such, and if they would just knock on his dressing room and inform him that she's here to see him, then this whole misunderstanding would be resolved, but no— they won't budge an inch.

"Sorry, ma'am," they shake their heads at her. "You'll have to wait by the stage door like everyone else," they say.

She eventually huffs, mumbles a thank you, and retreats to the back rows of the nearly empty theater, feeling frustrated with the turn of events. Seeing him in person is way more complicated than she initially thought.

The main entrance is packed by a chattering crowd, members of the audience who procrastinate exiting the theater, and reporters and cameras waiting to spot one of the actors for an interview—so it's not a great idea to linger about there either.

She contemplates calling him on the phone, and her finger even hovers over his number for a long moment before she snaps her phone shut and shoves it back in her purse. What if he doesn't answer? Or hangs up once he recognizes her voice?

She doesn't want to take that chance.

She sighs and gets off the seat, pulling down the tight hem of her recently bought—and with a pretty penny, she might add — ivory- colored cocktail dress. She had planned this night a bit differently, but it seems like she's left with very few options. She miserably heads for the stage door hoping to at least get to say a word as simple as hi to him.

If he makes an appearance.

The number of fans gathered at the stage door is obscene. There's a rope extending well until the end of the block clearing a path for the actors to walk down on and sign autographs. Rey's hopes begin to dwindle as she counts the heads separating her from the stage door. She goes on her tiptoes trying to steal a glance over the bulky shoulder of a guy standing in front of her before she gives up and tries to work her way between the stifling bodies. She manages to get close enough to have a good view of a brick wall not exceedingly far from the door— she would have definitely preferred to be a few meters closer—by the time she gives up and waits.

The late September night is pleasant enough. Not too warm, not too cold, although she wishes she had brought a sweater with her. She begins to count the few twinkling stars piercing the glowing New York skyline, while balancing her weight from one foot to another. The balls of her feet begin to turn numb and her calves cramp up as the evening continues to tick by. She regrets having worn heels.

The door opens suddenly. There's a flurry of action as the crowd moves closer, hands flailing in the air and voices rising to catch the star's attention.

It's not Kylo.

Rey recognizes the actress who played Ophelia—Daisy something, she doesn't quite remember the last name. She'll end up forgetting her own name if she stands much longer waiting for him. The actress goes down the line, signing autographs and posing for selfies, smiling brightly at the fans.

Rey begins to feel her knees go weak from anticipation— and exhaustion. By the time she sees him, she won't be able to utter a single word if her tongue gets stuck to her palate from thirst.

The door opens once again and there's another wave of excitement in the crowd. Rey earns herself a shove between her shoulder blades by someone's elbow. The actor that emerges goes down the same line flanked by security, repeating the same motions. Autographs, selfies, smiles…

Her head begins to throb. The crowd doesn't seem to grow tired, or get any thinner.

It's not until the fourth time the door opens that Kylo finally appears.

The roar of the crowd momentarily deafens her. She tries to catch his attention by raising her hand, calling his name like everyone else around, but she's been swallowed by a wave of bodies.

His dark eyes roam the crowd, sliding in her direction.

Her heart gets lodged in her throat when he smiles, and she's about to beam back brightly at him, when she realizes his smile is not aimed at her. It's with the most awful, sinking sensation that she notices it's directed to a young woman not far from where she stands. She watches him pose for a selfie and sign autographs while exchanging a few quick words with fans before he moves on. He doesn't seem to have seen her.

"Kylo!" she calls. Please...please turn...

I came back…

But it's no use. He has walked down the line and away from her spot.

She lowers her hand.

On the subway home, she sets her forehead on the stained window, too disappointed and wrung dry to hold herself together. She was so certain this would be the night they would get to see each other again. She didn't have many hopes about an earthshaking reunion happening between them— if she was completely honest with herself— but she at least wanted him to know she kept her word, and came to see him in the play.

And now he doesn't even know that…

She sighs, a frail mist forming against the glass. She stares at her tired reflection being lit up by the subways' flickering lights, while the rhythmic hum of the railtrack resounds in the wagon. The condescension evaporates slowly, as if it was never there to begin with.

Something stirs in the pit of her belly, something hollow and empty, a sensation very close to how she felt for years and years of her life. Α sensation she hoped she would never feel again after tonight.

Hamlet has really done a number on her.

Rey leans in to sigh another puff of hot breath on the window. She manages to draw a heart with a lovesick arrow running through it, initials and all, like she would have done as a teenager if she had ever allowed herself to feel. It too disappears.

She tries to spot a star twinkling between skyscrapers, and wonders if making a wish on one is as extraordinary as they make it to be. If it could perhaps alter—

Suddenly, she sits up.

She takes a deep breath and sets a few wisps of hair in place, before fishing through the scarce contents of her purse for her phone. No, she won't call him—she still doesn't know how he would react to her voice— but she refuses to return to the skittish person she used to be up until recently. If she wants something done, she can't wait for the universe to deliver it on her lap. One way or another she will find him and speak to him. She won't give up until he looks her straight in the eye and tells her it's all over.

Only then will she let go.

She opens a tab on Google to search for new tickets.

Who said she only had to see the play once?

.

.

.

It's a Wednesday evening, ten days later, that she finds herself standing outside the stage door for the third time—the previous one being a no show. The number of fans is a much more reasonable number than that of a Saturday night premiere, so Rey feels a lot more confident this time around that she'll get to talk to him, if he decides to come out.

And sure enough, when Kylo does emerge from the door it doesn't take long for him to spot her. She can tell because his eyes roam over her and slide right back, widening just a tiny fraction to signify his surprise. He's in the process of signing an autograph to a young man who's talking excitedly about Space Wars and asking if he intends to return for a new installment, in what is probably the gazillionth time he has been asked this question. Kylo smiles politely and says that no, other roles are currently in the cards, sadly, all the while grinding at his gum —his discreet, yet very distinctive way of showing his annoyance. Rey stifles a smile.

More fans reach out to congratulate him and Rey extends her program, knowing that he can't avoid her.

His eyes meet with hers once more. They are dark and indecipherable, not conveying any other thought or emotion besides aloof politeness. Rey tries not to lose her resolve as he towers over her, and reaches with his marker to sign his name. His hand trembles slightly.

"An actor and close friend once spent hours talking to me about theater," she says, voice low and wavering a bit, no matter how much she tries to control it. His hand pauses for a moment. "I wish I could tell him that he was right about it. Theater was as magical as I expected it to be and so much more."

He looks up, smiling tightly. "I'm sure he'd be happy to hear you enjoyed the show."

"I—hope to tell him more if I get to see him one day. There's still so much to say."

"There is?" he quips, without interest. His expression remains closed off as he hands her back the program and reaches to sign somebody else's.

He doesn't move away.

Rey swallows. "Yes, at least from my side, and if he wants to chat or—or is interested in getting together for a drink then maybe there's a way to show this— this friend how some things have changed since the last time we saw each other."

"And what things would that be?'

He slides his dark eyes back to her, and Rey feels like cold water is trickling down her back. It has been a long time since she came up against the sharp contours of his facade. She scrambles to come up with an answer vague enough not to betray their past in front of the crowd. A girl at her side watches her intensely.

"It's hard to talk about them right now," she mutters, feeling her cheeks heat despite the chill of the night air. "But if he could give her a chance, a second chance, then maybe–"

"Aren't second chances a bit overrated?" he says matter of factly. "Judging from my experience, at least. I don't think it would be a good idea to count on them much."

Rey stares at him, words scampering from her mind. She nods faintly, too numb to react in any other way.

He smiles. But it's a cold smile that never reaches his eyes."Well, good luck with your friend then," he says. "And thank you for coming to the play."

He turns his attention elsewhere and moves down the line.

He doesn't look at her again.

Rey doesn't know how long she stands outside the stage door staring at the void. She's aware, somehow, of the small crowd thinning out, talking excitedly and laughing, sharing their opinion about the play. She's aware of the busy street and its rushing traffic. She's even aware of the light drizzle falling on her hair, forming droplets on her lashes and rolling down her cheeks.

But everything else feels numb.

When she finally begins to walk, setting one foot in front of the other, the only purpose for tonight, for this moment, for this very lifetime, to simply reach the subway station a few blocks away and crawl back to her home—she is no longer aware of much else.

She came back to him too late. He has moved on.

It's not as if she had not told herself it would happen all along, right?

But she never imagined it would sting so much, coming face to face with reality so abruptly. It's as if all her dreams have been pulled from under her in one quick swipe, and there is nothing within her grasp to help break her fall.

She came back for nothing. To nothing.

Rey halts at the corner of the block, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. The pedestrian light has turned green but she can't cross the street right now. She's trying hard not to cry. Not in the middle of Manhattan and over a man she had always, always, known would break her heart in the end.

Why did she allow herself to hope that he would wait for her? What did she have to offer that he would ever want?

Him. Kylo Ren. One of the best rising actors of his generation.

From her...

The high-pitched sound of brakes and sloshing tires approaches her spot. A black shiny SUV with tinted windows pulls up next to her.

Rey quickly wipes at her eyes, tightens her coat around her waist and resumes walking. Standing all alone in the middle of the night is never a good idea in New York, even on a busy street such as this. The drizzle has turned to thick droplets, and she can hear the vehicle's windshield wipers swiping at glass as it follows behind her.

Her heart begins to thud as she picks up pace, rain soaking her black Oxfords.

A window rolls down, and Rey prepares herself to break into a sprint.

"You're going to be drenched by the time you reach the subway station," a familiar deep voice says from inside the SUV. "I know how stubborn and proud you are, but I would really appreciate it if this time you simply did as I asked, and got in the car. It would save us a lot of trouble."

Rey hunches to look inside, squinting through the rain. She's met with a pair of handsome eyes staring pointedly back up, their simmering depths making her chest clench suddenly in longing. She is caught off guard, completely unprepared to face him now, and she straightens her back, her instincts to flee momentarily taking over before she shuts her eyes and fights to keep them at bay. She fists her hands, trying to bring down the hammering of her heart.

"I thought you said you don't believe in second chances—"

"This isn't the place to debate about convictions, Rey."

"Well then what exactly were you trying to prove at the stage door? Because you definitely had me fooled," she glares.

"Just get in the car," the voice repeats, softer. "You are the one who took seven months to come searching for me. Don't try to be difficult."

She chews on her lip but eventually nods, reaching for the door handle with a shaking hand. She slides inside the warm, dry environment of the car, a comfort she wasn't aware she needed so desperately. The door thuds, locking the world away.

Her teeth begin to chatter— but not because of her wet clothes. It's because of the sickening anxiety coiling like a serpent in her stomach.

"So," he drawls, "I don't know how many more times you intend to watch the play, but if there's something you wanted to talk to me about—"

It takes her a moment to meet his eyes. They gleam hauntingly in the darkness, as one hand rests casually on the steering wheel and the other grips the back of her seat. His white dress shirt stretches across his wide chest.

"I do," she says, stealing herself. There's no backing down now. Or ever again.

He cocks his head. "Then by all means— Fire away."

Author's note: Aaaand... I'm rising the number of chapters by one more to include an epilogue. Be patient!

Music selection for the chapter: "Wish that you were here" by Florence and the Machine.