From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 234

**TITLE: Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**

**Chapter 234**

The flicker of the television casts eerie shadows across the room, a horror movie playing in the background, its chilling soundtrack seeping into the silence that envelops me. I can almost hear the distant echoes of a haunting melody, the kind that used to fill our evenings with laughter and light. Now, it feels like a ghost of what once was, a reminder of the warmth that has faded into the void. I pull the door shut with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the stillness, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s searching for something to fill the emptiness, something to distract from the memories we shared. The playful jabs she used to throw my way—those little teases that felt like sunshine on a cloudy day—are now just echoes in my mind. I can almost picture her, slumped against my side, her eyelids heavy with sleep, pretending to fight it off, while I’d chuckle softly, knowing she was losing the battle.

But now? Now, she doesn’t even spare a glance in my direction.

Nights are the hardest to endure. As I lie in bed, the sheets cold and uninviting, every fiber of my being aches for her presence. I miss the way she would curl up beside me, her warmth radiating like a comforting blanket against the chill of the night. Lately, I’ve found myself playing her favorite songs, a self-imposed torture that I can’t seem to escape. Initially, I scoffed at the idea of such melancholy tunes, dismissing them as the ramblings of a heartbroken soul. But now? Now, they resonate within me, each note a painful reminder of her absence. I realize that I, too, am drowning in this sea of sorrow. It’s as if these songs are our only means of communication, a bridge across the chasm that has formed between us.

And yes, it’s utterly pathetic. Here I am, a grown man, wallowing in the depths of sad love songs. Yet, there’s something about them that feels like a piece of Savannah still lingers, woven into the very fabric of the lyrics.

Just two days ago, she nearly caught me in the act. I walked into the kitchen, earbuds firmly in place, and there she was, pouring coffee with an ease that used to soothe me. Thank the heavens my earbuds were wired, or she would have seen through my ruse. If she had, I can imagine the teasing would have been relentless—her laughter ringing in my ears for days, a playful melody that would haunt me.

I miss that, too. The playful teasing, the chaos of our shared moments, the warmth of her laughter.

Yet that day, she didn’t even seem to notice my presence. Even if she had, the music blaring in my ears would have drowned out my attempt to greet her. It would have sounded like a madman shouting in a serene space, and I couldn’t bear the thought.

I press my palm against my chest, feeling the dull ache settle deep within—a constant reminder of the grief that has taken residence in my heart. Perhaps that’s all love truly is: a slow, creeping grief, biding its time until it overwhelms you.

In this moment, I would give anything to hold her close, to feel her heartbeat beneath my palm, to share in the silence without the weight of unspoken words. I crave the simplicity of burying my face in her neck, laying my head on her chest, inhaling the scent of her skin, and forgetting the world, if only for a fleeting moment. But dreams, as they say, are just that—dreams.

If she’s safe, if she’s at peace, then I can endure this silence. I can withstand the ache that gnaws at my insides. But how long can I hold on before the weight of it consumes me entirely?

With a heavy sigh, I push off the doorframe and make my way toward the bathroom. Each step feels like a burden, dragging me further into the abyss of despair. My body protests, worn from the endless cycle of work and distraction. I’ve immersed myself in projects—construction sites, endless meetings, and pointless inspections—anything to divert my attention from the reality that she won’t even look my way.

Standing before the mirror, I peel off my shirt and pause, taking in the reflection that stares back at me. Tired eyes, a rugged jawline, a man who appears older than he did just a week ago. And then my gaze drops to my chest.

There it is—the impulsive decision I made last night when the noise of the world became unbearable.

Even now, I can hardly believe I went through with it. I’ve marred my skin, defaced my body with a needle.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve avoided anything that would leave a mark like this. But that night, it felt like the only way to reclaim a breath, to feel alive again.

The letters stretch across my chest, inked deep and dark, a permanent reminder of my devotion.

SAVANNAH.

I find myself staring at it, lost in the significance of her name etched into my skin. It’s not merely art; it’s not an act of rebellion. It’s surrender, a testament of my unwavering love. Each curve of her name feels as if it was meant to be there, as if it were always a part of me.

I trace the letters with my thumb, the skin still tender, a stark reminder of the pain I willingly endured. Yet, that pain is a mere whisper compared to the agony of losing her.

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