Key Story (2) - Chapter 9
The rain continued its relentless drumming against the windows, each drop hitting the glass like a reminder of the storm they couldn't escape. It filled the oppressive silence in Sable's apartment, yet did nothing to lessen the weight between them. The small living room felt suffocating, the air thick with tension and everything left unsaid, as though the very walls were closing in on them.
Raxian sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his back rigid and his body tense. He hadn't relaxed since they arrived—not once—and every passing second felt heavier than the last. His hands gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white, his fingers curled so tightly that the skin stretched painfully. But he didn't let go. He couldn't. Letting go felt like giving up. Like admitting that he had no control—over this, over her, over anything.
His mind was a whirlwind of guilt and helplessness, swirling too fast for him to find solid ground. The memory of finding her with Lynx played in an endless loop in his head, flashing behind his eyes every time he blinked. The way Lynx had gripped her chin, his nails digging into her skin, his voice low and mocking. Raxian had wanted to tear him apart, to make him pay for every second of her suffering. But he hadn't. He'd been too late. Too slow.
And now, he couldn't fix what had been done.
He glanced at Sable, unable to stop himself from looking at her again, desperate for some sign—any sign—that she was still the same girl he knew. The one who had always been so fiercely alive. But she sat there, folded into the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her, her arms wrapped around herself like a barrier. She looked so small, so fragile—nothing like the Sable he had come to rely on.
Her hoodie, once a symbol of her casual confidence, now swallowed her thin frame. Her hair, damp from the rain, clung limply to her face, the blue streaks dull and lifeless. She didn't brush it away, didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were locked on the weak flickering of the electric fireplace, but Raxian knew she wasn't seeing it. She was somewhere far away—somewhere he couldn't reach.
And that killed him.
Sable had always been the one to give him clarity when he felt lost. He thought back to the park, to the way she'd unknowingly helped him half a year ago. Her calm presence had been like an anchor, pulling him out of the spiral of guilt and confusion that had been consuming him after the fight with Fayne. Raxian had been struggling, unable to figure out how to fix things, drowning in his own mistakes. But Sable had been there—steady, unflinching, cutting through the noise in his head with her quiet wisdom.
You seem like you've still got a lot on your mind, she had said, her voice calm, her presence grounding him when he needed it most.
She had always been able to see through him, to pull him back from the edge when he didn't even realize how far he'd drifted. Back then, she had been his anchor, his clarity. She had seen him for who he really was, and for the first time, he had felt understood. He had let her in—trusted her in a way he hadn't trusted anyone else.
But now… she was the one lost, and he didn't know how to bring her back.
The distance between them, once so easily crossed, now felt like a chasm too wide to bridge. She hadn't spoken much since they'd arrived—hadn't even looked at him. Her silence was louder than any words she could have said, and it tore at him. She was shutting him out, pulling further and further away, and Raxian didn't know how to reach her.
The guilt gnawed at him, hollowing him out from the inside. He had failed her. Not just now, but long before this. He thought back to the rooftop, to that moment at the start of the school year when she had confronted him, her voice tight with hurt.
"You've been hard to reach lately," she had said, her eyes searching his face for an answer.
Back then, he hadn't realized what she meant. He had been so focused on himself, on trying to figure out who he was outside of League, that he hadn't noticed the distance growing between them. He hadn't realized that she was slipping away until it was too late. She had told him then, in her own way, that she felt abandoned, but he hadn't heard her. Not really.
"You used to need me," she had said, her voice trembling with a vulnerability she rarely showed.
He hadn't understood the weight of those words until now.
Raxian swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he watched her, curled up in the chair, her eyes distant. The connection they had once shared—the unspoken bond that had held them together through everything—was gone. And it was his fault.
"Sable…" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
She didn't move. Didn't look at him. For a moment, he wasn't sure she had even heard him.
Then, without turning, without shifting her gaze from the fire, she spoke. "Don't," she said softly, her voice so fragile it felt like it might break. "I don't want to talk about it."
Raxian's heart sank. Her words felt like a door slamming shut in his face. She still wouldn't look at him, her eyes locked on the flickering flames, as though they held some kind of escape. She was somewhere far away, beyond his reach, and it terrified him.
He had always been able to fight his way through things—through obstacles, through arguments, through life. But this… this was something he couldn't fight. And the more he tried, the further she pulled away.
"Okay," he muttered, his voice barely audible. His hands gripped the edge of the couch even tighter, his knuckles aching from the strain, but he didn't let go. He couldn't. Letting go felt like giving up, like admitting that he was losing her.
Again.
The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. The rain outside pounded relentlessly against the windows, but the storm inside him was louder. Raxian's eyes flicked back to Sable, his chest aching with the weight of everything unsaid. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms, to tell her that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere. But he knew better. She wasn't ready. And maybe… he wasn't either.
Every time he had tried to comfort her since the rescue, she had pulled away, recoiling from his touch. Not in anger, but in fear. Or maybe something deeper—something even more fragile that he couldn't understand.
The memory of the winter break haunted him. She had opened up to him then, trusted him with her vulnerability in a way she hadn't with anyone else. She had let him in—let him see the parts of her she usually kept hidden. But now, sitting here, just a few feet away from her, he felt as though they were worlds apart. He had let her down.
The rain intensified, hammering against the windows as if the storm itself was trying to drown out the silence between them. But nothing could. The distance between them felt insurmountable, and for the first time in his life, Raxian didn't know what to do.
Sable had always been the one to guide him through the fog, to make sense of the chaos when he couldn't. But now… now she was lost, and he didn't know how to bring her back.
He swallowed hard, the tightness in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He wanted to say something—anything—to close the distance between them. But every time he opened his mouth, the words shriveled before they could take shape. He was afraid of pushing her further away, afraid of breaking what little of her was left.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he whispered, "Do you… need anything?"
Sable shook her head, a slight movement, barely noticeable, but enough to tell him that the distance between them wasn't closing. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tight, and she curled further into herself, as if drawing in more tightly would keep the world at bay.
Raxian sighed, the sound heavy, defeated. He felt utterly useless. Helpless. The frustration built inside him, tangled with the guilt that gnawed at him with every passing second. He had failed her when it mattered most, and now, he didn't even know how to help her heal.
"Sable, I'm—"
"Don't apologize," she cut him off, her voice barely more than a whisper, but sharp enough to stop him cold. "It's not going to change anything."
Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with resignation, and Raxian felt the breath leave his lungs in a sharp exhale. She was right. Nothing he said could change what had happened.
The silence returned, thicker than before, pressing down on both of them like a weight they couldn't escape. Raxian's chest tightened painfully, his heart aching with the knowledge that he had lost her—maybe long before this.
Sable had always been his clarity, his guide through the fog. But now, they were both lost, and he didn't know if they would ever find their way back.
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The door to the hallway creaked open, and Sable's father stepped quietly into the room, his footsteps soft but purposeful, almost hesitant. The light from the hallway cast a faint glow behind him, cutting through the dim living room for just a moment before it disappeared as the door clicked shut behind him. He moved with the kind of cautious grace reserved for those who are walking through a fragile world, terrified of making a misstep that might shatter everything further.
His eyes scanned the room, lingering on his daughter. Sable sat curled up in the armchair, her body folded into itself, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She looked so small, so broken, her once-vibrant energy drained to a shadow of itself. Her hair, still damp from the rain, clung to her pale cheeks, the strands a stark contrast to her skin, which had lost its color. Her father's face softened, and in the lines etched across his forehead and the heaviness in his eyes, there was sorrow—a deep, aching sorrow. And helplessness.
He wanted to reach out to her. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing with the instinct to comfort, to offer some kind of paternal solace, but he held himself back, unsure of how to proceed. His gaze flickered to Raxian, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, their eyes met. In that single look, a world of understanding passed between them.
They were both powerless.
Raxian and Sable's father, two people who cared deeply for the same girl, shared the same crushing realization: they couldn't fix her. They couldn't take away the pain, couldn't heal the wounds that were invisible to the eye but cut so deeply into her soul. They could only watch her suffer, could only stand by as the storm inside her raged on, knowing that no matter how much they wanted to help, they didn't know how.
Her father exhaled softly and stepped further into the room, his footsteps barely audible, as though even the sound of his presence might upset the delicate balance that hung in the air. He approached the coffee table slowly, his eyes flicking to the untouched cup of tea that sat in Sable's lap, still warm but untouched. His fingers hovered over the cup for a moment before he gently picked it up, the weight of it light in his hand, but the gesture itself was heavy. His fingers brushed against the cool surface of the porcelain, and he sighed, setting it back down on the table as if it was something far more fragile than it actually was.
The cup was symbolic—a silent acknowledgment of the helplessness they both felt. He had made the tea with care, hoping it would bring some semblance of comfort to his daughter, but she hadn't taken a sip. The tea had gone untouched, just like every other attempt to reach her. The gesture, however well-meaning, had done nothing to ease the deep ache inside her.
"I thought maybe she would drink it," her father said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His tone was soft, but there was a rough edge to it, as though speaking the words aloud hurt. He glanced at Raxian, his eyes filled with a kind of muted, resigned sadness. "But… I guess not."
Raxian nodded stiffly, unsure of how to respond. His throat felt tight, his chest heavy with the weight of the tension in the room. Everything felt wrong, like they were standing in a world where the pieces no longer fit together. The air was thick, suffocating, and even though Sable's father's presence softened the sharpness of the tension, it didn't lessen the helplessness that had settled between them all.
"She hasn't eaten, either," Raxian said after a moment, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. His words felt clumsy, inadequate. "She… she won't talk to me." The admission felt like a stab in his chest, each word heavy with the guilt and frustration he had been carrying since they'd found her.
Sable's father nodded slowly, his face drawn with worry, his eyes lingering on his daughter's still, folded form. He took a step closer to her, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he was approaching something fragile that might shatter at any moment. He hesitated, standing just behind the armchair, his gaze soft as he looked down at her. His hands, which had trembled ever so slightly before, twitched again, but this time he didn't reach out. He couldn't. The fear of pushing her further away kept him frozen.
"I don't know what to do," he whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the sound of the rain. His words were more for himself than for Raxian, a quiet confession of the helplessness that was eating him alive. "She's always been so strong… so stubborn. But now…" His voice trailed off, filled with the unspoken fear that only a parent could know—the fear of watching your child fall apart in front of you and being powerless to stop it.
Raxian's chest tightened at the man's words, and he felt the weight of them settle even heavier on his own shoulders. He understood. He knew the helplessness that came with watching Sable slip further away, and the guilt that gnawed at him every time he thought about how he hadn't been able to stop what had happened to her. He had failed her. They both had.
Sable's father turned back to Raxian, his eyes rimmed with red but dry, as if he had used up every tear he had left in him. There was a quiet strength in the man, a resilience born from years of protecting his daughter, but now, in this moment, that strength seemed brittle, like it might break at any second. He reached out, placing a hand on Raxian's shoulder with a gentleness that spoke volumes. The gesture was comforting, but it also felt like a plea—a desperate need for some kind of reassurance that neither of them could give.
"You being here… it helps," Sable's father said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Even if it doesn't feel like it right now." His eyes, though tired and worn, held a kind of gratitude, as though Raxian's presence alone was enough to offer some small measure of comfort, however fleeting.
Raxian nodded, but the weight in his chest didn't lift. It couldn't. How could it, when every second that passed felt like another reminder of how much he had failed her? He wanted to believe that being here helped, but the truth was, he felt more helpless than ever.
The rain continued to hammer against the windows, the sound of it filling the quiet room, but it did nothing to drown out the overwhelming sense of loss that hung in the air. Raxian's gaze flicked back to Sable, still curled up in the armchair, still so far away, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. How could he help her if he couldn't even reach her? How could anyone help her?
Her father lingered for a moment longer, his eyes soft as they rested on his daughter. His face, lined with the weight of too many sleepless nights, reflected the helplessness that Raxian felt in his own chest. And then, with a quiet sigh, he stepped back, retreating toward the door. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if leaving her alone again was the hardest thing he could do.
As he reached the door, Sable's father cast one last, lingering glance toward her. His lips parted as if he might say something, but no words came. Instead, he turned the handle and slipped out of the room, leaving Raxian and Sable alone once more, the weight of his departure settling over the room like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Raxian's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every passing second. His chest ached, his throat felt thick, and the guilt that had been gnawing at him since the rescue felt like it might swallow him whole. He wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the room apart—anything to release the pressure building inside him. But all he could do was sit there, helpless, as the rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, drowning out the silence that had fallen between them.
He looked at Sable again, her fragile form still folded into itself, her eyes distant, and for the first time in his life, Raxian didn't know what to do. He had always been the one who could fix things, the one who could fight his way out of any situation. But this… this was something he couldn't fight.
And that, more than anything, was what terrified him the most.
The storm outside raged on, but the real storm was the one between them—the one that neither of them knew how to weather.
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The rain continued to pound against the windows, a relentless, unyielding reminder of the storm both outside and within. The dim light from the electric fireplace flickered weakly, casting jagged shadows across the room, but they did nothing to warm the chill that had settled between them. Raxian sat on the edge of the couch, his body tense, his hands trembling as they gripped the fabric beneath him.
He couldn't take it anymore. The silence. The distance. The way Sable sat across from him, folded into herself like she was trying to disappear. Every second that passed felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, making it harder to breathe. He had never felt so helpless, so utterly lost.
The memory of finding her—Lynx's hand on her chin, his cruel grip, the bruises that had left their mark—flashed through his mind again, and the fury and guilt surged in him like a wave. He had been too late to protect her then, and now… now, even with her right in front of him, he couldn't protect her from this—her pain, her fear, the way she was shutting down in front of him. He hated himself for it.
"Sable…" His voice cracked, barely louder than a whisper. He didn't even know what he wanted to say. He just needed her to hear him, to know that he was still here, that he wasn't going to leave her. Not now. Not ever.
But she didn't respond. Her eyes remained fixed on the weak fire, her body still tense, her hands trembling as they clutched the edges of her hoodie. She was so far away, locked inside a place he couldn't reach, and it was killing him.
"I—" His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "I don't know how to make this better," he confessed, his voice trembling with the weight of his emotions. "I don't know how to fix what happened. I feel so fucking useless, just sitting here, watching you go through this, knowing I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save you."
The words spilled out, raw and broken, and he didn't care if they made sense or not. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He couldn't pretend he was okay when he was falling apart inside.
"I should have been there," he continued, his voice cracking. "I should have been faster, smarter. I should have protected you. I was supposed to protect you, and I failed. I fucking failed you, Sable. And now… now, I don't even know how to reach you. You're right here, and I feel like you're slipping away from me."
His chest heaved with the effort of holding back tears, his hands shaking as he buried his face in them, overwhelmed by the weight of his guilt, his helplessness, his love for her. "I love you," he choked out, his voice barely holding together. "I love you, Sable. I don't know if you can even hear me right now, but it's true. I love you, and I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. I'm so fucking sorry."
He looked up then, his eyes red and filled with pain as he stared at her, desperate for any sign that she was still there, that she was still with him. "I know you're not ready. I know you're not okay. And I don't expect you to be, not now, not anytime soon. But I need you to know that I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here, with you, for as long as it takes. I'll wait as long as you need. I'll be here, Sable, even if it takes forever for you to heal."
His voice broke again, and this time, he couldn't stop the tears from spilling over. "You saved me once," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Do you remember that? After everything with Fayne, when I was a mess, when I didn't know who I was or where I was going… you were there for me. You gave me clarity, you pulled me out of that darkness, and I never thanked you for that. I never told you how much that meant to me."
He wiped at his eyes, his hands trembling as he struggled to keep his voice steady. "Now, it's my turn," he said, his tone fierce with determination. "I'll stay by your side, Sable, for as long as you need me. I'll wait, I'll fight for you, even if you can't fight for yourself right now. I won't let you go through this alone."
The room fell into silence again, the sound of the rain and his ragged breathing filling the space between them. His heart pounded in his chest, the raw intensity of his confession hanging heavy in the air. He wasn't sure if she could hear him, if she could understand the depth of what he was trying to say. But it didn't matter. He meant every word.
For a long, agonizing moment, there was nothing. Sable didn't move. She didn't speak. And Raxian felt the familiar ache of helplessness tightening in his chest again, the fear that he couldn't reach her—that maybe he had already lost her.
But then, slowly, Sable's gaze shifted. Her eyes, clouded with pain, flickered toward him, and for the first time that night, she really looked at him. Her lips parted slightly, a tremor running through her as she fought to find her voice.
"I… I don't know if I can…" She trailed off, her voice so fragile, so broken, it nearly shattered him.
"You don't have to," Raxian whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say anything. You don't have to do anything. Just… let me stay. Let me be here with you. That's all I want."
Sable's eyes flickered with something—hesitation, fear, maybe even a hint of gratitude—but it was fleeting, and her gaze fell again, back to the fire. She didn't speak, didn't move, but the smallest shift in her posture—her shoulders relaxing just a fraction—was enough.
And for Raxian, it was everything.
He had no idea how long it would take for her to heal, or if she ever truly would. But he knew one thing for certain: he wasn't going to leave her. Not now. Not ever.
As the rain continued to pour outside, and the fire flickered weakly in the corner, they sat in silence—two broken souls, bound by a love that neither of them had fully spoken before now, but which had always been there, quietly waiting for its moment to be heard.