BENEATH THE SURFACE

(Before We Were Us)


The rain falls in torrents, each droplet striking the pavement with a fierce urgency, as though the city itself is at war with the heavens. From my vantage at the window, I watch it all, captivated by the turmoil of the streets below—damp, dull, and filled with a restless energy that mirrors a turbulence inside me.

Milton. Its heartbeat is as fierce as the storm. How many times have I looked down upon this city and felt its weight press into me, foreign and strange? A part of me wants to turn away, to retreat into the safety of my own thoughts, but I find myself unable to do so. I wonder if I am finally beginning to grasp it—or if I am only becoming more ensnared in its labyrinth of soot and sweat, a labyrinth I fear may consume me completely. Yet, strangely, I feel myself drawn deeper into it, tangled in its contradictions, its fierce, untamed core.

It has been days since Mr Thornton and I last exchanged words. Days since the disagreement that left a bitter taste on my tongue and confusion in my chest. His disdain, his arrogance, his fury—all of it echoes through my mind, as if his words were seared there. 'You are no better than the rest of them, Miss Hale.' His voice had been frigid, biting, yet beneath it, something else stirred—a flicker of frustration, perhaps even sorrow, that I could not shake. What was it? Contempt? Disillusionment? Perhaps both. And yet, I am left wondering… what was it that I truly felt in that instant? Resentment? Or a sentiment infinitely deeper and more intricate?

The storm outside mirrors my thoughts, swirling in disarray and ambiguity. I try to quiet the voice that has begun to question everything—my first impressions, my own principles. This is the city that has made me so uneasy, so often at odds with what I believe. Yet, the longer I am here, the more I see beyond the grime and the industry, the more I realise that I have been too hasty in my judgments. Too quick to judge him.

Milton is a city built on blood, sweat, and toil, all of which saturate the wisps of cotton that rise in a slow, mocking flurry. It is a place defined by the constant whirring of machines, cold, indifferent machines, and where the workers—those same workers I once pitied—seem to carry the weight of the world upon their shoulders. In them, I once saw only suffering, a kind of grim endurance that I could not fully understand. But now, as the days pass and I begin to walk these streets more freely, I see something else. I see the power in them, the quiet pride that they hold in their work, in the very sweat that stains their brow. They are not broken. They endure. And the city—like them—keeps surging forward, its menacing skyline rising against the darkening sky, resolute, refusing to bow to the storm.

And Mr Thornton? How often have I misunderstood him? I see him now in a new light, no longer the arrogant, unfeeling mill owner who towers above the rest. I see a man struggling, struggling not just with the world around him, but with himself. Perhaps it is foolish to even think it, but I can almost feel his strain—the weight he carries in his chest, the one that compels him to be the man he is. Proud, yes. Stubborn, unquestionably. But is there more? Beneath that hard exterior, beneath the ire that so often surges in his voice, is there a different man—one who is not so unlike me? Is he simply trying to make his way in a world that has no room for gentleness, a world where every misstep is a blow to his pride?

I wish I could say that I had no compassion for him. That I could stand in this room, distant and untouched by the thought of him, and tell myself I am done with all of it—the arguments, the pride, the misunderstanding. But I cannot. I cannot quite relinquish the glimmer of something within me—a spark of desire that stirs when I think of him, even now, with his eyes narrowed in fury and his words sharp as blades. It is there, and I cannot deny it. It is not just admiration or respect for his strength, for his durable resolve. It is something more—something that I am not yet ready to name, but it swells within me like the storm outside. It is a restlessness, a yearning that I cannot yet understand, a longing to see beneath that tempestuous exterior and know what lies within.

My fingers trace the edge of the windowpane, the cool glass a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room behind me. It's strange, really, how much I have changed in such a short time. How easily I have allowed myself to be drawn into this city's rhythm, its noise, its very heartbeat. And how much of that rhythm has found its way into my own chest. I was raised to value tenderness, kindness, patience—the qualities that would win hearts, the ones I believed in so fervently. But here, in Milton, those qualities seem to falter. Here, strength of will seems to hold more weight than softness of heart. How many times have I seen that in Mr Thornton? How many times has he displayed a determination so firm, so immovable, that I felt both frustrated by it and… captivated by it?

I cannot help but ask myself what lies beneath his pride, his harshness. Am I so different from him? Have I not, too, been a creature of pride, of obstinacy? My pride in my upbringing, my father's ideals, my refusal to accept Milton and all it represents. But now, as I stand here, I wonder if I have been mistaken. Have I been too rigid in my understanding of the world, of people, of him?

The thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep growl that shakes the ground beneath me. The storm is intensifying, stubborn as I am. I know nothing of Mr Thornton's struggles, nothing of the battles he fights in silence. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps I have already decided that I am not meant to understand him, not meant to be part of his world. But even as that thought takes root, I cannot help but think of the way his voice softened, just for a moment, when he spoke of his parents, one alive, one dead, of the family he has worked so tirelessly to provide for. In that brief instant, I saw something different in him. When his voice cracked, I saw between the cracks, and there, in his core, lay something I had not seen before, something I had not credited in him. Something human.

And I wonder: if I could see him as he truly is, beneath all the layers he wraps himself in, beneath the fury, beneath the pride—would I still feel the same? Or would I be changed, as I am being changed by this city, by its harshness, its demands, its refusal to allow for weakness? What would I see beneath his resolve, behind that gaze that holds me so steadily, so intensely—what is it that lies just beneath the surface?

The rain continues to batter the streets, its sound a steady rhythm in the background. I watch the people below, rushing to and fro, their movements so much like the restless energy inside me—torn between opposing forces, driven forward, yet uncertain of the direction. My heart beats in time with the city's pulse, caught between two worlds: the one I left behind, and the one I seem to be slipping into, despite my best efforts to resist.

The question remains, swirling in my thoughts. What would I see if I looked closer, if I dared to peel back the layers? Would it be a man worth knowing? Or a man forever beyond my reach?

I cannot contemplate it. And yet, I notice I say cannot often. But perhaps it is that I will not, or that my will does not want to give in and give way to a better understanding of him.

And with that thought, I step away from the window, my mind still filled with his image—his pride, his fury, and perhaps, just beneath it all, something that might be a little softer than I care to admit. The storm rages on outside, as it rages within me. And I am left to wonder how long I can resist the pull of both.

Perhaps one day, I will know. But for now, I am left only with the questions—questions that feel heavier than the rain itself.