Chapter 139 Savannah Roman I don’t know what’s going to kill me faster—poison, or not speaking to Savannah. Honestly, it feels like the latter will finish me off quicker. I’m leaning against the door, waiting to hear her footsteps move past toward the hall. But they don’t. Which means she’s still in the living room, probably curled up on the couch with her phone, pretending I don’t exist. I should go to her. Yell at her for being so fucking infuriating, then kiss her until we both pass out from lack of oxygen. But every time I picture it—storming in there, angry and desperate—I see the other version too. The one where she looks up, eyes glistening, voice trembling as she tells me to leave her alone. Or she tells me that she thought I was different. So I stay here, leaning on this cold wood, feeling like a fool because that version cripples me. The truth is, I miss her so much it physically hurts. I miss her voice. The rhythm of her laughter. The way she always smells like something soft and safe. I miss my girl — more than I ever thought I could miss anything. But I know this distance is what she needs. She’s trying to make sense of everything—me, us, the chaos we’ve become together. And I’m trying to give her that. Still, hearing her speak tonight—hearing her voice even if it was to start another argument made me stupidly happy. I would’ve grinned like a kid if I didn’t know it’d get me killed. She’s a beautiful firecracker, that one. She’ll burn me alive one day, and I’ll probably thank her for it. I’ve been miserable since this fight began. My head feels wrong without her voice in it. Every quiet minute scratches at me like a curse. People at work have noticed. I can tell. They’ve been walking on eggshells, whispering, glancing away when I enter the building. I’m sure they’ve guessed something’s off at home. And if anyone’s brave—or stupid—enough to ask, I’ll fire them before they finish the sentence. Because no, everything isn’t fine. Savannah doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to talk to me. And the worst part? I understand her perfectly. I’ve hidden too much from her. Too many shadows. Too many truths that should’ve been hers to hold.She has every right to be angry. Every right to shut me out. But sometimes, I wish she’d remember I’m just a man. Only human — terrified, flawed, and trying not to lose the one person who makes this life a little bearable. That's all. I wish she'd understand that I'm neither a saint, nor a monster—just someone scared of losing the one good thing he’s ever had. That’s all this silence is, really. Fear dressed as restraint. If I were stronger, I’d tell her everything. I’d tell her about Blackwood Manor and its ghosts that reside there—the kind you can’t exorcise, the kind that whisper when the lights are on. I’d tell her about my dead wife and her promiscuous ways. And I'd also tell her how my father used my mother's death as currency to buy public affection. I’d tell her the one part of me that I should have told her the whole truth about. That I never wanted children. Not with anyone. Not even with her. No matter what. Not because I don’t love her, but because I love her too much. Because every woman close to me has paid a price for it. That's pretty obvious. It's been whispered that my family carries a curse that bleeds through generations. The women we love die bringing life. And I could never gamble Savannah’s heartbeat for something as fragile as hope. No matter how crazy I sound. She probably doesn’t even know I noticed that day at the ice cream parlor—how her eyes lingered on the children in the booth, how she smiled like she was trying to imagine us there, part of that picture. It broke me a little. Because I can’t give her that dream. I’d rather die than see her suffer for it. I've been looking into getting a vasectomy. I don’t want to take any chances if her life's at stake. There's nothing concrete yet. And that's because I don't know how she'd take that. So I keep it all locked away. Every secret. Every fear. I pretend the distance is for her. But it’s for me too. Because if she knew the full truth, she might never forgive me. I press my back harder into the door, exhaling slowly. I wonder if she’s watching a movie out there. Something scary. Or maybe something romantic. Like those ones she used to make me sit through just to tease me. She’d curl into my side halfway through, eyes drooping, pretending not to fall asleep. Now she doesn’t even glance at me. The nights are the worst. When I lie in bed alone, every muscle tense from missing her warmth. I’ve been playing her favorite songs lately—mostly to torture myself, I think. Initially I thought that lady was pathetic and sad. Always making those songs. The ones that sound like heartbreak set to melody. They used to make me insane, but now I understand them. I understand her. She's hurting her. I'm hurting, too. So it feels like communication. It’s still pathetic, really. Me, a grown man, drowning in sad love songs. But there’s something about them that feels like Savannah. Like she’s still here, just in the lyrics. She almost caught me listening two days ago or so. She was in the kitchen, pouring coffee, and I walked in with my earbuds still in. Thank God they weren’t wireless, so she didn’t notice I had them on. If she had, I’d never hear the end of it. She’d tease me mercilessly. Probably hum the songs for days just to get under my skin. I miss that too. The teasing. The chaos. The warmth. But she didn't even care nor notice me that day. Even if she did, the music was too loud for me to say good morning without sounding like a lunatic yelling at the top of his lungs in a quiet place. I rub at my chest. It aches—a slow, dull pressure, like grief with nowhere to go. Maybe that’s all love really is: grief waiting to happen. I’d give anything to hold her right now. No words. No arguments. Just her heartbeat under my palm.I want to bury my face in her neck, lay on her chest, breathe her in, and forget everything for a while. But a man can only dream. If she’s calm, if she’s safe, that’s enough for me. I can take the silence. I can take the pain. I just don’t know how long before it eats me alive. I push off the door, exhaling hard and walk toward the bathroom. Every step feels heavier than the last. My body aches from overworking. I’ve been throwing myself into projects—construction, meetings, pointless site inspections. Anything to distract from the fact that she won’t look at me. When I reach the mirror, I strip off my shirt and pause. The reflection stares back, tired eyes, rough jaw, a man who looks older than he did a week ago. And then my gaze drops to my chest. There it is. The impulsive decision I made last night when the silence got too loud. A tattoo. Even now, I almost can’t believe I did it. I finally ruined perfection with a needle. I’ve spent my entire life avoiding anything that leaves this sort of mark. But that night, it felt like the only way to breathe again. The letters stretch clean across my chest, inked deep and dark. SAVANNAH. For a long moment, I just stare at it. It’s not art. It’s not rebellion. It’s surrender. It's devotion. Every curve of her name carved into my skin like it belonged there. I touch the letters, tracing them slowly with my thumb. The skin is still tender, a reminder of how much it hurt—and how little that pain compares to losing her. I remember sitting in that sterile room, the artist asking if I was sure. I didn’t even think twice. Yes, I was sure. I’ve never been surer of anything. Because even if she never forgives me, even if she walks out and never looks back, she’ll still be here. Right where my heart beats. I’ve always thought tattoos were reckless, impulsive, stupid. But love makes you do stupid things. Love turns logic into noise. Love makes you sit in a chair at midnight and let a stranger carve someone else’s name into you like a curse. And maybe that’s what it is. A curse. I tilt my head, imagining her reaction. She’d probably call me insane first. Then maybe she’d go quiet. Maybe she’d touch it, run her fingers across each letter, and for a second—just a second—she’d know how much she means to me. I lean closer to the mirror. “Look at you,” I whisper to myself. “Pathetic.” I turn off the light and walk back out. For a moment, I considered walking to her—just to see her, to sit nearby in silence. But I stopped myself. She doesn’t want me right now. And I won’t force her to. Instead, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I can almost hear her laugh echoing faintly in my head, can almost feel her touch. My body remembers what my heart refuses to forget. Four days without her voice. Four days without her warmth. But it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know how we got here. How something that felt so infinite became so fragile. Maybe love was always a risk. Maybe it was always meant to hurt. But I’m done pretending I can survive without her. Even if she never speaks to me again, she’ll always have me. All of me. I glance down at the tattoo once more. She’ll never know the truth behind it—that I wasn’t trying to be romantic or bold. I was trying to remember who I was before the silence, before the distance swallowed us whole. I was just trying to breathe. Savannah. My chaos. My peace. My undoing. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to tell her everything. Maybe one day she’ll forgive me. Until then, I’ll carry her name on my skin. A vow carved into flesh and bone. A reminder that even in silence—especially in silence—she’s still the only thing that keeps my heart beating.