Comfort in Chaos

Urge

Under the softly swaying branches of the yellow-flowered tree, Abigail sat with Ed, cradling her coffee cup in her hands, feeling the warmth seep through her fingers. The quiet murmur of the garden around them gave her a strange sense of calm, a stark contrast to the storm that had been brewing in her life. She finally mustered the courage to speak, her voice low and hesitant.

"I… I wanted to apologize," she began, her gaze fixed on the ground. "For how I ran out of your place that night. I know it must have seemed strange, maybe even rude. I just didn't know how to explain myself." Her voice trembled slightly, her eyes betraying a glint of embarrassment.

Ed shook his head, his expression gentle and understanding. "There's no need to apologize, Abigail," he replied softly. "Life throws things at us, sometimes more than we can handle. I understand." He took a small sip of his coffee, his gaze steady on her as he tried to ease her discomfort. But Abigail's curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn't hold back the question that had been lingering in her mind.

"But… how did you know my name?" she asked, looking up to meet his eyes. "I don't remember telling you that night."

Ed chuckled, a soft warmth in his eyes. "I figured it out later," he admitted. "That night, I was scrolling through my news feed, and I saw a video of a girl in a soaked green t-shirt, being chased by paparazzi in the rain." He paused, a faint smile playing at his lips. "I recognized the t-shirt. I'd asked my maid to bring it to you. And then there was the headline with your name—it was impossible to miss."

Abigail's eyes widened in surprise, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You… remembered the t-shirt?" she murmured, genuinely taken aback by his attention to detail.

Ed nodded, his gaze kind but perceptive. "Yeah. I mean, it was a bit hard to ignore. The paparazzi made sure of that." He leaned back slightly, taking another sip of his coffee. "And as I read those headlines, I could tell they were just stories. There was no way that they had the truth."

She let out a quiet, shaky laugh, her grip tightening around her coffee cup. "You're one of the few who thinks that, then." Her voice softened, tinged with defeat. "To everyone else, I'm just a headline. The girl who messed up, the one who supposedly betrayed someone she loved. It's like they don't even see me anymore." She paused, glancing up at him, her expression unreadable. "But… why would you believe me?"

Ed's expression softened as he looked at her, his eyes sincere. "Because I was there," he said quietly. "When I was on my way to a friend's place that night, I saw you. You were walking alone in the rain, soaked through, like you were in some kind of trance. I even honked to get your attention, but it was like… like you didn't even hear me." He paused, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "I knew then that something terrible must have happened."

Abigail was silent, her eyes widening slightly as she absorbed his words. She had no idea anyone had seen her that night, let alone someone who seemed to understand the weight she was carrying. "You're… you're really observant," she murmured, almost to herself, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

Ed gave a faint smile, his gaze turning more thoughtful. "Sometimes it's the little things that tell the real story. And with you, it was obvious something was deeply wrong. The way you looked that night…" He trailed off, choosing his words carefully. "It was clear that you'd been hurt in a way that couldn't be captured by a headline."

A silence fell between them as Abigail's gaze dropped back to her coffee. She swallowed, then spoke, her voice a little stronger. "Yeah, I… I was hurt. I went to surprise my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend now," she corrected, her tone filled with bitterness, "and instead, I was the one who got the surprise." She paused, her fingers gripping the cup tightly. "I found him with someone else. Someone I thought was a friend."

Ed's eyes softened as he watched her struggle with the memory, her pain as raw as the night he had seen her in the rain. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it if it's too painful," he said quietly. "I don't want to make you relive that."

Abigail gave a weak smile, shaking her head. "No… maybe I need to say it. I've been keeping it in, and I'm… I'm so tired of pretending I'm okay." She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "The worst part isn't even what he did. It's that he twisted the story, made it sound like I was the one who betrayed him."

Ed's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger crossing his face. "Ace sounds like a coward and a fool," he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "It's obvious he's using you as a stepping stone—playing the victim to get sympathy, to make himself look good."

Abigail looked at him, her brows knitted in confusion. "What do you mean by 'stepping stone'?" she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice. "Why would he go that far?"

Ed hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully. "I don't mean to intrude, Abigail," he began, his tone gentle but firm, "but… after seeing what you went through that night, I couldn't just stand by and do nothing." He looked at her intently, his gaze unwavering. "I asked a friend to dig into Ace's background. I wanted to understand what kind of person would hurt someone the way he hurt you."

Abigail blinked, caught off guard. "You… you looked into him?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, her shock evident.

"Yes," Ed admitted. "Not because I wanted to pry, but because I know what it's like to regret not stepping in when someone needs help. A couple of years ago, I knew someone in a similar situation—she was going through hell, and I just… I turned a blind eye. I didn't want to intrude." His voice grew quiet, filled with a mixture of regret and determination. "And that decision still haunts me. She didn't make it through. She… she was destroyed by it. And I promised myself I'd never ignore someone who needed help again."

Abigail was silent, her gaze softening as she looked at him, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So… that's why you want to help me?"

"Yes," Ed replied, his voice filled with quiet intensity. "I know what people like Ace can do when they're willing to tear others down just to build themselves up. You deserve better than that, Abigail." He took a deep breath, choosing his next words carefully. "But I'm worried that the way you're going about this—trying to appear strong, acting like none of it matters… I'm afraid it might backfire. People might think you're over it, but that only gives Ace more room to manipulate things."

Abigail let out a humorless laugh, looking away. "So you're saying my plan's useless?"

"No," Ed replied firmly. "I think you need to fight back, but in a way that shows you're human—that you've been hurt, that you have every right to be angry. Everyone's already questioning Ace's version of things because you're staying silent. If you reveal just a glimpse of what he put you through, it could change everything."

Abigail studied him, feeling a mix of doubt and a glimmer of hope. "And you… you really want to help me do this?"

"Yes," Ed replied, his voice unwavering. "Think of it as payback for that night when I nearly knocked you over. I just don't want to see you drown in this battle alone."

She was quiet for a moment, considering his words, her fingers tracing the edge of her coffee cup. Finally, she met his gaze, a small, hesitant smile forming on her lips. "Alright, Ed. Help me. I don't know where to start, but… I think I could use someone on my side."

Ed smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "That's all I need to hear. I'll guide you through this, Abigail. You don't have to face it alone. Together, we'll make sure that people see the truth, no matter how hard Ace tries to hide it."

For the first time in a long time, Abigail felt a sense of relief. Under the yellow-flowered tree, she felt a renewed strength, knowing she had someone willing to help her face the storm. The urge for revenge hadn't disappeared—but now, it was tempered by a sense of justice, a desire to reclaim her story on her own terms.