Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 140: The Choice Was Mine

The light shifted slowly through the window — from gold to soft amber. The shadows stretched quietly across the floor, brushing against the faded rug and the piano bench where Billy sat again.

He hadn’t played much.

Just touched the keys, here and there. Let them echo.

Sometimes he stopped completely — just sat, hands in his lap, staring at the blank wall.

Outside, the city was starting to slow. The kind of stillness that crept in before evening — a stillness he used to ignore.

Now, he listened.

He moved quietly to the little side table by the couch, pulled open the drawer, and found the small jotter — the one he’d brought from the village. Its cover was bent at the corners now, worn soft.

Inside: two numbers.

Mr. Dand.

Mark.

He stared at Mark’s name for a moment, thumb hesitating over the digits. Then he reached for his phone, typed it in slowly, carefully, like the action itself might shatter the quiet.

He stood by the window when the call finally connected.

"Hello?"

Mark’s voice. Calm. Familiar. A little surprised.

Billy didn’t speak right away.

"Billy?" Mark asked again, softer now.

"Yeah... it’s me."

A pause.

"Hey. I wasn’t sure if you’d— I mean. It’s good to hear your voice."

"I won’t take long," Billy said quietly. "Just..."

He leaned slightly against the glass, eyes half-closed.

"How’s Artur?"

Mark was quiet for a beat. Then:

"He’s... trying. He gets up early. Works with pops, barely stops. Doesn’t talk much."

Billy’s jaw tensed slightly.

"He’s eating?"

"Mostly. Dand’s keeping an eye on him. I am too."

A longer pause.

"Do you want me to give him the phone?"

Billy’s breath caught.

His chest tightened. The tattoo ached under the wrap — not pain. Just weight.

"No," he said quickly. Then softer: "Not yet."

Mark didn’t push.

"Alright."

Billy nodded even though Mark couldn’t see it.

"Tell him..." he began, then stopped. "No. Never mind. Just—thanks. For looking out."

"You know I will."

Billy closed his eyes for a second, holding onto the stillness.

"Goodnight, Mark."

"Goodnight, Billy."

The call ended.

He lowered the phone slowly, resting it on the table.

Outside, the city lights blinked on one by one.

Inside, Billy stood in the soft quiet of his old apartment, feeling the presence of someone a thousand miles away.

The room had darkened without him noticing.

City lights flickered outside, their glow casting slow-moving patterns across the wooden floor and pale walls.

It made everything feel soft. Like memory.

Billy sat still on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, phone resting loosely between his fingers.

His gaze was lost somewhere — not on the wall, not on the window. Just somewhere else.

His heart still beat steady. But it was tired.

Not in pain. Not in despair.

Just tired in the way hearts get when they’re still full of love, but have nowhere to place it.

He blinked slowly, then looked around — at the place he once called home. His piano. The pictures. The scent of old cologne still faint on the cushion beside him.

All still here. But none of it quite fitting anymore.

His eyes landed on the small framed photo again. A version of himself once celebrated. Applauded. Admired.

But he was someone else now. Not entirely different. Just... deeper.

And someone else’s face lived behind his eyes.

He stood.

Not abruptly.

Just slowly, like the weight of the day caught up with his spine.

He reached for his shirt, slipped it back on gently — mindful of the fresh ink beneath the fabric. Then took one last look around the room.

No goodbyes.

He didn’t need one.

He picked up the jotter, slipped it into his bag.

Opened the door.

Paused.

Then stepped out.

The night air greeted him like a soft breath — cooler now, calmer.

He began the quiet walk home.

No headlights. No fanfare. Just footsteps, slow and sure.

Each step a little lighter than the last.

The front door opened gently, the sound of keys brushing against wood as Billy stepped inside.

The house was quiet — not the peaceful kind, but the kind that sat too still. Like the air was holding its breath.

He slipped off his shoes, his movements slow, careful.

Then he heard it.

His father’s voice.

"You’re back."

Billy looked up.

Mr. Sandoval stood near the dining table, hands folded behind his back. His suit jacket was gone, but the collar of his dress shirt was still crisp — like tension was stitched into every thread.

Camila stood by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t speak.

Their mother sat on the couch, paperwork forgotten on her lap.

Billy didn’t answer right away. He simply met his father’s eyes across the room, calm but unflinching.

"We received a call," Mr. Sandoval continued, voice even. "Eleanor spoke to her parents. Said she’s no longer interested in continuing the arrangement."

He paused.

"Care to explain?"

Billy blinked once. Then."We talked. It wasn’t what either of us wanted."

"That was all"

Mr. Sandoval’s jaw shifted slightly — not clenched, just tightened like he was holding something back.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"

Still calm. No shouting. Just steel.

"You embarrassed our name. Undermined an agreement made by two families. Her father is—"

"Enough."

It wasn’t Billy who said it.

His mother stood now, voice quiet but firm — not sharp, but weighted.

"This isn’t about our name. This is about our son."

Mr. Sandoval turned slightly toward her, but she kept going.

"You asked him to meet her, and he did. You wanted them to talk, and they did. And they both realized they don’t belong in this. They don’t love each other, and they don’t want to pretend they do."

A pause.

"Is that so shameful?"

Mr. Sandoval didn’t respond, eyes flicking between them.

Billy stood still, hands by his sides. No defense. No argument. Just... quiet truth.

His mother’s voice softened.

"He’s done everything you ever asked of him. He went to the schools you chose. Took the path you carved. He even became what you wanted him to be, whether it made him happy or not."

"But for once—just once—can you let him choose something for himself?"

The silence afterward was heavier than anything spoken.

Mr. Sandoval looked at his son — really looked. But he said nothing. Not a word. Just turned away, his expression unreadable, and walked toward the hallway.

Billy watched him go, his face still composed, but something flickered in his chest.

His mother stepped forward, reaching for his arm gently.

"You chose right, even if it costs you. That matters more than making him proud."

Camila, still by the kitchen, gave a small nod.

Billy didn’t reply. He just exhaled slowly — the kind of breath you release after holding it far too long.

Then finally...

"I’m going to rest," he murmured, already turning toward the stairs.

"I’ll bring you something later," his mom offered.

He nodded once, then disappeared upstairs — the house behind him still too quiet, but different now.

Something had shifted.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Billy stayed with his back against the door, eyes low. The house was quiet—but no longer heavy.

It was the kind that settled over him gently — like a curtain falling after the final scene.

He walked across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly. Carefully. Not because he was tired, but because everything in him was still processing.

He looked down at his hands — fingers interlaced loosely, knuckles pale.

The echo of his father’s words still lingered in the back of his mind. So did his mother’s voice... and the way she’d stood for him.

That part stuck.

He leaned back slightly, palms resting behind him, gaze drifting to the corner of the desk — where the drawing of Artur still sat tucked between a few books. He hadn’t moved it. He didn’t need to. It belonged there now, like a quiet reminder of what mattered.

Billy reached for it. Ran his fingers gently over the edge.

His chest ached.

Not from the tattoo. From the absence.

A small sound escaped his throat — not quite a sigh, not quite a sob. Just breath, caught somewhere between memory and longing.

He set the drawing down again, carefully.

Then leaned back on the bed, legs still hanging off the edge, arms crossed under his head.

The ceiling above him was plain, white, still.

But in his mind, the stars blinked faintly over a village sky.

A moment later...

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Leon?" Camila’s voice — gentle. She didn’t come in. Just waited.

"Hmm?"

"I left something outside your door. Just tea... and dessert."

A beat.

"You don’t have to eat it. I just thought maybe... maybe you’d want something sweet tonight."

Billy’s lips lifted into the faintest smile — tired, but warm.

"Thanks, mila" he said softly.

He listened as her footsteps padded away.

The silence returned — not empty, just his.

Billy closed his eyes.

Still no answers. Still no certainty.

But one thing was sure now:

He’d chosen his own path today.It might ache, but it was finally his to carry.

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