Chapter 7: The Ignored
The courtyard was impossibly bright for a day that felt so heavy. Sunlight spilled across the cobblestones in golden pools, warming the wrought-iron benches and the students who lounged on them. Laughter drifted from a nearby cluster of freshmen, their voices light and unburdened in a way that made Justin's chest ache with something close to envy.
He spotted her from across the lawn. She was exactly where she always was on Thursday afternoons—beneath the oldest oak, her back against the trunk, a worn copy of Wuthering Heights balanced on her knee. Her beanie was pulled low, but a riot of curls escaped from beneath it, catching the light like spun bronze. She hadn't seen him yet. He could have turned around. Could have walked away and saved them both the pain.
He didn't.
"Paris."
Her name came out softer than he intended, almost a plea. She didn't look up. Her finger traced the line of text, slowly, deliberately, as if she hadn't heard him at all.
He moved closer, his shadow falling across her pages. "Paris, can we talk?"
She turned a page. The motion was calm, measured. A quiet act of war.
"Nothing to talk about, Justin."
"I know you're angry—"
"Angry?" She laughed, but the sound was hollow, scraping against his ribs like broken glass. "That's a funny word for it. I'm not angry, Justin. I'm disappointed. In you, in myself, in this whole pathetic situation."
He crouched down, bringing himself to her level. His hand reached for hers, but she snatched it away, tucking it beneath her thigh like she couldn't bear the sight of it.
"Please. Just give me five minutes."
Her eyes finally met his, and he wished they hadn't. There was no warmth there, no hint of the woman who had laughed at his jokes, who had traced constellations on his chest, who had looked at him like he was worth something. Just cold, hard steel.
"I gave you months, Justin." Her voice was quiet, devastatingly even. "Months of my time, my energy, my trust. And you repaid me by lying to my face while you were inside another woman."
He flinched. The words were a knife, and she twisted them with surgical precision.
"That was enough."
Justin opened his mouth to respond, but a shadow fell across them both. Maya stood over them, her arms crossed, her expression thunderous. She looked like she'd been summoned from some primal fury, her eyes blazing with protective rage.
"She said no, Calloway." Maya's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Back off."
"This doesn't concern you, Maya." Justin rose to his full height, his jaw tightening. He was taller than her by half a foot, but somehow she seemed to tower over him. "This is between me and Paris."
"It's between you and Paris when you're hurting my friend." Maya stepped closer, her finger jabbing toward his chest. "And right now, you're hurting her. So it concerns me. Leave."
He laughed—a bitter, sharp sound that scraped against his throat. "Fine. Whatever."
He turned on his heel, stalking away. He could feel their eyes on him—Paris's cold and unforgiving, Maya's blazing with contempt. He wanted to look back, wanted to see if Paris's mask had cracked at all, but his pride wouldn't let him.
His fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
He was so fucking tired of being the bad guy.
---
The walk back to his apartment was a blur of heat and anger. His feet carried him through the familiar streets, past the coffee shop where he'd first kissed Paris, past the park where they'd spent a lazy Sunday reading together. Every corner held a memory, each one a fresh wound that refused to heal.
He shoved open the door to his apartment, slamming it hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames. The silence that greeted him was suffocating. His eyes landed on the kitchen counter, where Paris's sweater still lay folded, forgotten from the last time she'd stayed over. He'd washed it, folded it carefully, meaning to return it. She'd never asked for it back.
He crossed the room in three long strides, snatching the sweater from the counter. It smelled like her—vanilla and something warm, something that made his chest ache. He held it for a moment, his fist clenching in the soft fabric.
Then he threw it. It hit the wall and crumpled to the floor, a sad heap of cashmere and memories.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out, ready to snap at whoever dared to interrupt his spiral of self-loathing. But the name on the screen made him pause.
Kate.
"Rough day, baby? I saw the whole scene in the courtyard. You looked like you needed a drink. Come over."
He should delete the message. Should throw his phone against the wall and scream until his throat was raw. He should do a lot of things.
Instead, he typed three words.
"On my way."
---
Kate opened the door wearing nothing but a silk robe the color of blood. Her hair was loose, falling in dark waves around her shoulders. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she took in his disheveled state—his clenched jaw, his wild eyes, the tension radiating off him in waves.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."
"Don't." He pushed past her, his body thrumming with restless energy. "Don't start."
She closed the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing through the apartment. "I'm not starting anything. I'm just observing that you look like someone kicked your puppy and then ran over it with a car."
He whirled on her, his chest heaving. "I'm not in the mood for your clever fucking remarks, Kate."
"Clearly." She crossed her arms, the robe gaping slightly to reveal the curve of her breast. "So why did you come here? You don't want my wit. You don't want my conversation." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low purr. "What do you want, Justin?"
He stared at her, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. She was beautiful, in a way that was almost cruel—all sharp edges and knowing smiles. She asked nothing of him. Expected nothing. She was an empty vessel, ready to be filled with whatever darkness he needed to purge.
"You know what I want."
She smiled, slow and predatory. "I thought so."
She shrugged the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her body was lean and athletic, her skin pale against the dim lighting of her bedroom. She walked toward him with deliberate grace, her hips swaying, her eyes locked on his.
He didn't move as she reached him, as her fingers found the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. She traced the lines of his chest, her touch featherlight, almost teasing.
"Go on," she murmured. "Take what you need. That's what I'm here for, right?"
He grabbed her roughly, spinning her around and pushing her toward the bed. She stumbled, catching herself on the mattress, looking back at him with a grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation.
"Eager, are we?"
He didn't respond. He unfastened his jeans, shoving them down his hips. She watched him, her tongue darting across her lower lip.
"Just lie down," he growled.
She obeyed, stretching out on the bed like a cat in the sun. Her legs parted, a silent invitation that he intended to take full advantage of.
He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her thighs. He was already hard, his cock straining toward her, desperate for release. But he didn't enter her immediately. Instead, he leaned down, his mouth finding her nipple, sucking hard enough to make her gasp.
"Fuck, Justin."
He moved to the other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Don't tease me," she breathed. "I know you're not here for foreplay."
He pulled back, his eyes dark and dangerous. "You're right. I'm not."
He positioned himself at her entrance, and she whimpered—an actual, genuine whimper that made something dark and primal stir in his chest. He pushed inside her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt.
"Oh, fuck—" She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
He didn't give her time to adjust. He set a brutal pace, slamming into her with a force that made the headboard bang against the wall. She cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"That's it," she urged. "Fuck me like you hate me."
He did. He fucked her with a raw, desperate energy, each thrust fueled by the image of Paris's cold, hard eyes. He imagined she was beneath him—her wild curls spread across the pillow, her amber eyes dark with desire instead of disappointment. The thought made him drive harder, faster, chasing an oblivion he couldn't seem to reach.
Kate's breath came in ragged gasps. "You're thinking about her again, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. He just slammed into her harder, his palm coming down to cover her mouth when her moans got too loud.
"Shut up," he hissed. "Just shut up and take it."
Her eyes glittered with something that might have been defiance, but she didn't fight him. She just took it, her body yielding to his violence, her hips rising to meet each punishing thrust.
He was losing himself. His mind was a battlefield of guilt and want, of Paris's face and Kate's body. He wanted to feel something—anything—other than this endless, gnawing emptiness. He wanted to be punished for his sins, and Kate was more than willing to serve as his executioner.
He pulled out abruptly, flipping her onto her stomach. She yelped as he shoved her face into the mattress, yanking her hips up. He slammed back into her from behind, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.
"Yes," she gasped into the sheets. "God, yes."
His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise. He was lost in the sensation—the heat, the tightness, the filthy slide of his cock through her slick folds. He fucked her with a wild abandon, his thoughts spiraling into darkness.
Her fingers tangled in the sheets as she arched into him. "Oh fuck, I'm going to come. Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
He didn't stop. He couldn't. He was driven by something primal, something he didn't have words for. She tightened around him, whimpering in pleasure as she crashed into her release, her body convulsing against his.
He followed moments later, his orgasm ripping through him like a shockwave. He emptied himself inside her with a guttural roar, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.
When it was over, he collapsed beside her, his chest heaving, his mind blissfully blank for the first time in hours. Kate rolled onto her side, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. She was smiling, but there was something knowing in her gaze.
"Feel better?"
"No." The word came out flat, hollow. "I feel like shit."
"That's because you're still thinking about her." She propped herself up on one elbow, studying him with an unreadable expression. "It's been a week, Justin. You need to move on."
"Moving on isn't exactly easy when I'm the one who fucked it up."
"Maybe that's the point." She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Maybe you need to stop trying to fix it and just accept that it's broken. Some things can't be fixed."
He stared at the ceiling, her words settling over him like a weight he couldn't shake. She wasn't wrong. He'd broken something precious, something irreplaceable, and no amount of wishing would change that.
But accepting it felt like giving up. And giving up felt like admitting that he truly was the monster he feared he was.
Kate climbed out of bed, padding naked toward the bathroom. She paused at the doorway, looking back at him.
"Stay for a while. I'll order some food. You can mope in my bed instead of yours."
He should say no. He should get up, get dressed, and leave. But the thought of returning to his empty apartment, with Paris's sweater still crumpled in the corner, was more than he could bear.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Fine."
---
The sky was darkening outside when he left Kate's apartment, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he walked. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen.
Maya: "Paris is hurting. I don't want to see you anywhere near her until she's ready to talk. And if that day never comes, you have no one to blame but yourself."
He stared at the message, his jaw tight. He wanted to respond—to defend himself, to explain—but what was the point? Maya was right. He'd done this. And he'd have to live with it.
He pocketed his phone and kept walking, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him with each step.
---
The next few days passed in a blur of classes and practice and sleepless nights. Justin threw himself into his routines with a desperate intensity, trying to fill the void Paris had left behind. But nothing seemed to help. The hole in his chest remained, a constant reminder of what he'd destroyed.
He saw her once, across the courtyard. She was with Maya, their heads bent together over a shared textbook. Her hair was loose, tumbling around her shoulders in wild waves. She laughed at something Maya said, and the sound was like a knife through his heart.
He stood rooted to the spot, watching her. For a moment, she glanced up—her eyes meeting his across the grass. There was no warmth in her gaze. No recognition of what they'd once been. Just a brief flicker of something that might have been sadness before she looked away again.
He turned and walked in the opposite direction.
---
That night, he found himself at another party. Some house off campus, filled with nameless faces and cheap alcohol. He nursed a beer in the corner, watching the crowd ebb and flow like a tide he no longer had the energy to ride.
A girl approached him—blonde, pretty, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She said something, some meaningless flattery about his athleticism, his reputation. He didn't care. But when she leaned in, her mouth brushing his ear, suggesting they find somewhere quieter for some privacy, he followed her without a word.
She led him to an upstairs bedroom, closing the door behind them. Her name was something common—Jessica, or maybe Jenna. It didn't matter. Her body pushed his onto the bed. She got on her knees and fumbled with his belt buckle.
He closed his eyes as she worked. He pictured wild curls and amber eyes. The taste of vanilla and sin.
He responded to her touch, hard and ready. But when she took him into her mouth, he didn't feel a thing. He'd become numb somewhere along the way.
"Am I doing this right?" she asked, her hand working his shaft as she looked up at him with desperate eyes.
"You're fine."
She lowered her mouth onto him, and he groaned, grasping at whatever thread of pleasure he could find. He tried to lose himself in the sensation of her lips, her tongue. But his mind kept drifting back to Paris.
He imagined it was her mouth on him, her lips stretched around his cock, her amber eyes looking up at him with raw hunger. God, he'd done things to her that he couldn't take back. But in his mind, she was still his, still wanting him.
"Fuck, that's good." He fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her movements. "Suck it. Yeah, just like that."
Blood drained from her face as she took him deeper, obedient. She didn't protest, didn't ask for anything in return. She just serviced him, expecting nothing more than the privilege of his attention.
When he came, it was violent and sudden, a hot pulse down her throat. She swallowed eagerly, pulling back with a satisfied smile.
He felt nothing.
"Your turn," he said flatly, gesturing to the bed.
She looked disappointed, but she didn't argue. She climbed onto the mattress, hiking up her skirt. There was a damp patch on her underwear, but he didn't pay attention. He positioned himself above her, and she guided him inside.
He fucked her without enthusiasm, his mind elsewhere. She moaned beneath him, her hands grabbing at his shoulders. He kept his eyes open, staring at the wall behind her, where the peeling paint formed abstract patterns in the dim light.
"Come for me," she whispered. "Please."
He tried. He really did. But his body refused to cooperate. He pulled out, his erection softening.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I had a long day."
She frowned, reaching for him. "Give me a couple minutes. I'll get you going again."
He pushed her hand away. "It's not you. I just don't have it tonight."
He stood, tucking himself back into his pants. She lay on the bed, bewildered, as he grabbed his shirt and headed for the door.
"Wait—you're leaving?"
"Yeah. I don't think I'm the guy you're looking for anyway."
She watched me go, frustration and confusion flickering across her face. But he didn't look back. There was only one face he wanted to look at, and he'd ruined his chances of ever looking at it again.
---
The call came on a random Tuesday.
He was climbing out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, when his phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, expecting another text from a teammate about practice schedules or a party he wasn't interested in.
But it wasn't from a teammate. It was from a number he didn't recognize.
Curiosity got the better of him. He unlocked the phone and read the message.
"Hey, Justin. This is Lena. Paris's roommate from last semester. I got your number from Maya. I know things are weird right now, but Paris left something at my place—a notebook, I think. She's been looking for it. I was wondering if you could give it to her since I can't reach her."
He stared at the screen, his heart hammering against his ribs. Paris's notebook. Her most prized possession, the one she'd showed him once, filled with half-formed poems and sketches in the margins.
He typed back: "Yeah, sure. I can grab it from you. Where do you want to meet?"
Lena's response was quick: "There's a diner near campus—Mel's. I'll be there at 6 tonight."
He checked the time. He had a few hours to spare.
Fine. He'd pick up the notebook. And if Paris happened to be there when he dropped it off... well, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
His heart rate climbed at the thought. Maybe seeing her again was exactly what he needed. Maybe, if he could just tell her how sorry he was—really tell her, not the half-assed apologies he'd rehearsed in his head—she'd find it in her heart to forgive him.
It was a long shot. But it was the only shot he had.
Mel's Diner was a greasy spoon nestled between a laundromat and a tattoo parlor, its neon sign flickering with the arrhythmia of a dying heart. The air inside was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and old grease, the vinyl booths cracked and worn from decades of hard use. Justin spotted Lena in a corner booth, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a half-eaten plate of fries growing cold in front of her.
She looked up as he approached, a cautious smile playing on her lips. "Justin. Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for reaching out." He slid into the booth across from her, his eyes scanning the diner out of habit. "You said Paris left a notebook with you?"
Lena nodded, reaching into the oversized bag at her feet. She pulled out a battered leather journal, its cover worn soft at the corners, the pages thick and yellowed. She held it out to him, her fingers lingering on the spine.
"She left it at our place during finals week. I've been trying to get it back to her, but she's been... hard to reach." Lena's eyes met his, knowing and sympathetic. "I figured you might have better luck."
Justin took the notebook, his fingers brushing against the worn leather. He could almost feel Paris's presence in its pages—her thoughts, her dreams, her fears laid bare in ink. It felt intimate, almost sacred. Like holding a piece of her soul.
"Thanks," he said, tucking it carefully into his jacket. "I'll make sure she gets it."
Lena studied him for a moment, her head tilted. "You still care about her, don't you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes said everything.
"Just be careful with her, Justin." Lena's voice was soft but firm. "She's not as tough as she pretends to be."
He nodded, sliding out of the booth. "I know."
---
The walk to Paris's dorm was a slow death march. Each step felt heavier than the last, the notebook burning against his chest like a brand. He rehearsed what he'd say—half a dozen different openings, each more pathetic than the last. But when he finally reached her door, all his carefully crafted words evaporated into nothing.
He knocked. Three sharp raps that echoed through the empty hallway.
The door cracked open, and Paris's face appeared in the gap. Her eyes widened when she saw him, surprise flickering across her features before hardening into something cold and closed.
"What are you doing here?"
Her hand moved to close the door, but he was faster. He blocked it with his palm, the wood pressing against his skin.
"Lena gave me your notebook." He pulled it from his jacket, holding it out to her. "She said you've been looking for it."
Paris stared at the journal, her expression unreadable. After a long moment, she reached out and took it, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest instant. The contact sent a jolt through him—electric, desperate, achingly familiar.
"Thanks." Her voice was flat, dismissive. She started to close the door again, but he pushed back against it.
"Paris, wait—"
"I said thanks." Her eyes met his, hard and unyielding. "You can leave now."
"Why won't you even talk to me?"
"Talk to you?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a bitter, broken sound that cut through him like glass. "What is there to talk about, Justin? You've made yourself pretty clear."
"No, I haven't." His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. "I don't understand why you're this upset. We weren't together. We weren't in a relationship."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and terrible. Paris stared at him, her face going pale, then flush with a fury he'd never seen before.
"Are you serious?" Her voice rose, sharp and trembling. "Is that what you think this was? Just some casual thing where we fucked around until we got bored?"
"That's not what I'm saying—"
"Then what are you saying?" She stepped closer, her finger jabbing toward his chest. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're trying to minimize what we had. To make it seem like I'm overreacting. Like I'm some crazy bitch who caught feelings for a guy who was just passing through."
"I'm not trying to do that—"
"You are." Her voice cracked, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. "You're trying to pretend that the months we spent together didn't mean anything. That I didn't mean anything."
"Paris—"
"I let you in." Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw and broken. "I let you past every wall I've ever built, and I told myself it was okay because you were different. Because you made me feel safe. And then I find out that while I was falling for you, you were off fucking your ex in some desperate attempt to feel something."
He opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself, but nothing came out. She was right. Every word was a knife, and she was twisting them with surgical precision.
"I was just a warm body to you, wasn't I?" She laughed, bitter and sharp. "Someone to fill the void when you were bored, to stroke your ego when you needed validation. And the whole time, you were treating me like a consolation prize."
"That's not true."
"Then what was I?"
He couldn't answer. Because the truth was more complicated than she knew, more tangled and desperate than he had the courage to confess.
Paris shook her head, her voice heavy with defeat. "You don't get it, Justin. You don't get to waltz back into my life like nothing happened. You don't get to say 'sorry' and expect me to fall back into your arms."
"I've been trying to apologize—"
"Apologize?" Her eyes blazed. "Apologizing means acknowledging you did something wrong. Apologizing means owning up to your mistakes and trying to make them right. You've done nothing but make excuses and play the victim."
He flinched, her words hitting home in ways she couldn't possibly understand. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to leave." Her voice was stone. "I want you to go back to Kate, or whatever other revolving door of women you use to fill the emptiness inside you. I want you to stay the hell away from me and pretend we never happened."
"Paris—"
"I mean it, Justin." Her amber eyes met his, and there was no warmth there. Just a quiet, devastating resolve. "I never want to talk to you again. I never want to see you again. You made your choice. Now live with it."
She stepped back and slammed the door. The sound echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.
Justin stood there, frozen, his hand still pressed against the wood. He could hear her on the other side—breathing ragged, muffled sobs she was trying to suppress. He wanted to knock again, to beg her to open the door, to say anything that might undo the damage he'd caused.
But he didn't. He couldn't. He'd already hurt her enough.
He lowered his hand, turned, and walked away. Each step was a knife in his chest, each breath a ragged gasp of pain. He didn't know where he was going—back to his apartment, to Kate, to the bottom of a bottle. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
He'd lost her. The only woman who had ever made him want to be better. And no amount of wishing would bring her back.