SASHA’S POV
My father’s words cut through me like shards of glass, sharper than anything I had ever felt before. I tried to remain composed, but it felt impossible as my world crumbled in front of me. How could he not see?
How could he not understand that I was already drowning in emotions I couldn’t articulate? Sitting beside him in his dimly lit room, I felt the weight of his disappointment and concern, suffocating and relentless.
I turned my face away from him, biting my lower lip hard enough that I could taste the faint tang of blood. The sting distracted me, but only for a second, before the tears spilled over again, hot and unstoppable.
“Sasha,” my father’s voice broke through my thoughts, soft but firm.
“Tell me, what’s wrong, my little girl? Please, don’t hold it all inside. You’ve been carrying something heavy for too long. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I couldn’t look at him. If I met his eyes, I knew I would crumble entirely. Instead, I stared at the intricate pattern on the carpet, the swirls and curves that blurred as my vision grew hazy.
My heart ached, not just because of what he said, but because of how desperately I wanted to confide in him. But the words lodged in my throat refused to come out.
“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of my emotions.
I hated how weak I sounded, how transparent my pain was despite my best efforts to conceal it.
“You’re not fine,” he countered gently but firmly. “I know you, Sasha.
You’ve been my daughter long enough for me to see when something is eating you up inside. Is it Sebastian?”
The mention of his name felt like another stab to my already fragile heart. I winced visibly, unable to mask my reaction, and my father noticed.
“It is him,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a mixture of concern and frustration. “What did he do? Did he hurt you?”
“No!” I said quickly, almost too loudly.
My voice cracked again, and the tears came faster, cascading down my cheeks like a relentless storm. “It’s not like that, Dad. He didn’t… he didn’t do anything.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed, his brows knitting together.
He reached out to take my hand, his calloused palm warm and steady against my trembling fingers.
“Sasha, you have to let me in. Whatever it is, I can handle it. I’ll help you. That’s what fathers do.”
I shook my head vehemently, pulling my hand away as if his touch burned me. “You can’t help me, Dad,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “No one can.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, his tone laced with an urgency that made my chest tighten.
“You’re stronger than this. Whatever it is, you can get through it. But you have to let someone in. Let me in.”
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But how could I explain to him that the man I loved, the man I had given everything to, was the source of my pain and confusion?
How could I admit that I felt trapped between my loyalty to my father and my devotion to Sebastian?
I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady myself, but it was useless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping the torrent of emotions that poured out of me.
I sobbed openly, my shoulders shaking as I buried my face in my hands.
“Sasha,” my father said softly, his voice breaking as he watched me unravel. “Please, talk to me.”
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t find the words to explain the storm raging inside me. The guilt, the love, the anger, the longing-it was all too much, too overwhelming to put into coherent sentences.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“For what?” he asked, his voice filled with confusion and worry. “Why are you apologizing? Sasha, you’re scaring me.”
I shook my head again, unable to meet his gaze. I couldn’t bear to see the pain in his eyes, pain that I had put there.
“It’s nothing,” I lied again, knowing he wouldn’t believe me. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”
“Tired?” he echoed incredulously.
“Tired doesn’t make you cry like this. Tiring doesn’t make you look like the weight of the world is crushing you. Sasha, I know you’re trying to protect me, but you don’t have to. I’m stronger than you think.”
His words only made me cry harder. How could I tell him that the one thing he feared the most-that Sebastian wasn’t the right man for me-might be true?
How could I admit that I was terrified of losing both of them, that I felt like I was being torn in two?
My father reached for me again, his hand resting on my shoulder this time. “Sasha,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil I knew he was feeling.
“You can tell me anything. I won’t judge you. I won’t get angry. I just want to help.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to pour my heart out and let him take some of the burden from me. But the words wouldn’t come.
They stuck in my throat like a cruel reminder of my inability to trust anyone fully, not even the man who had raised me and loved me unconditionally.
“I can’t,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I just… I can’t.”
He sighed heavily, his hand dropping from my shoulder. The silence that followed was deafening, filled with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.
“Okay,” he said finally, his voice laced with resignation.
“If you’re not ready to talk, I won’t force you. But promise me this-when you are ready, you’ll come to me. No matter what it is, I’ll be here.”
I nodded wordlessly, unable to meet his eyes. The guilt of shutting him out was almost as unbearable as the pain that had driven me to tears in the first place.
After a long pause, my father spoke again. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go back to the dining room. You need to eat something.”
I hesitated, wiping my tear-streaked face with trembling hands. The thought of sitting at the table, pretending everything was fine, felt like an impossible task. But I didn’t want to worry him any more than I already had.
“Okay,” I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He stood and held out his hand to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it. Instead, I rose to my feet on my own, brushing past him as I headed for the door.
“Sasha,” he called after me, his voice filled with a mixture of concern and frustration.
I paused, my hand on the doorknob, but I didn’t turn around.
“I’m fine,” I said again, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
“You’re not fine,” he said, his tone firmer this time. “And I’m not going to stop worrying about you until you tell me what’s going on.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, leaving him behind. My steps were slow and deliberate as I made my way to the dining room, each one feeling heavier than the last.
By the time I reached the table, my appetite was completely gone. The thought of food turned my stomach, but I forced myself to sit down, plastering on a mask of indifference as my father joined me a moment later.
He didn’t say anything as he took his seat across from me, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting.
The silence between us was thick and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the lively conversations we used to have over meals.
I pushed the food around on my plate, pretending to eat, but the lump in my throat made swallowing impossible.
My father sighed heavily, the sound filled with unspoken frustration and concern, but he didn’t push me further.
For the rest of the meal, we sat in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. And though we were sitting mere feet apart, I had never felt more distant from him or from myself.