FORBIDDEN LOVE

7. I FORGOT MY PHONE

Dom looked at his watch, his brows furrowed as he noticed the time—six hours had passed. Six whole hours since he'd last seen Michael enter Stephanie’s apartment. He hadn't expected to still be in the area, but fate—or rather forgetfulness—had brought him back.

When everyone had left earlier, Dom realized too late that he’d left his phone on the couch in Stephanie’s living room amidst all the chaos of wedding planning. Figuring he could just swing by quickly, grab it, and leave unnoticed, he drove back with the intention of being in and out in five minutes.

But as he parked his car down the street from her building, his plan came to a halt when he spotted Michael standing outside, casually chatting with Beth. Dom stayed in his car, watching from the shadows, biting the inside of his cheek as he debated what to do.

He didn’t like what he was seeing, not because anything inappropriate was happening, but because the reality of Michael being so close to Steph, in her space, in her world, was like a punch to the gut. Beth eventually said her goodbyes and walked away, leaving Michael alone, and Dom could do nothing but sit there, clenching his fists on the steering wheel.

He watched silently as Michael finally got into his car, the taillights glowing red as he pulled away and disappeared into the evening traffic. Dom exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tightness in his chest not easing even with the man gone.

That should’ve been his cue to go inside and get what he came for, but he remained in place, staring at the front door of Stephanie’s apartment like it was a portal to all the confusion in his life. It would’ve been easy to just march up, knock, and say, “Hey, I forgot my phone,” like it meant nothing. But that was the problem—it didn’t mean nothing. Being in her presence never did.

The idea of facing her alone, after avoiding her for years, after burying everything he felt under layers of denial and self-imposed distance, made his heart race. And yet, the other option didn’t feel any better. Driving home and pretending he could go a whole night without his phone just to avoid her would be cowardly, and Dom hated feeling like a coward, especially when it came to her. But what if she was asleep? What if she didn’t want to see him? What if being in that room brought everything rushing back and he said something he couldn’t take back?

His mind was a battlefield of what-ifs and self-doubt, and still, he didn’t move. He rubbed his temples, mentally berating himself. He wasn’t her fiancé—hell, he wasn’t even her friend to begin with. He was just Chris’s best friend, the guy who used to tease her, the one who pretended not to care, the one who had no right to be standing there, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. And yet, here he was, sitting in his car like a fool under the streetlight, torn between the desire to be close and the fear of what it might cost. He sighed deeply and leaned his head against the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. Maybe he would go back tomorrow, when there would be people around, when it wouldn’t feel so intimate or risky. But deep down, Dom knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. Because no matter how much he tried to stay away, Stephanie had never stopped being the one thing he couldn’t let go of.

He finally decided that the risk of being alone in her presence wasn’t worth it. The thought of walking into that apartment, facing her sleepy eyes and soft voice, and pretending that it meant nothing—pretending he was just there for his phone—was a task far greater than his heart could handle. So, instead, he did what he’d always done. He chose silence. Distance. Safety. Maybe he truly was a coward, a man who had never gathered the courage to face the weight of his own feelings. A man who had spent years burying the truth so deeply that even he had almost convinced himself that it wasn’t there. But it always was. It clung to him like a shadow, especially when he looked at her or thought of her or, like now, chose to walk away from her for fear of what might come out if he stayed. The heaviness in his chest only grew as he turned his car around and drove away from the woman who had unknowingly held his heart for years.

When he arrived at his apartment, the silence inside wrapped around him like a cold blanket. The familiar comfort of his space didn’t ease the ache that came with the decision he had just made. He tossed his keys onto the table and slumped onto his couch, his eyes automatically drifting to the picture frame perched neatly on the shelf above his TV. It was a photo taken years ago—one where everyone looked awkward but happy, frozen in a moment of teenage innocence. Dom, Chris, the rest of their crew, Stephanie, and her friends. They were all bunched up in front of Chris’s house, smiles wide and eyes full of dreams that life hadn’t yet tried to beat out of them. Stephanie had been fifteen then, full of energy, a bit annoying with her constant questions and unfiltered opinions, but somehow captivating. That picture was the only one that featured her which he felt safe enough to display openly. In the company of others, it didn’t draw questions or suspicion. No one would guess how often his eyes strayed to her face in the frame.

He walked over and picked up the photo, running a thumb gently across the glass where her smile lit up the scene. How he wished he had more pictures like this—ones of just her. Pictures where she wasn’t surrounded by the people who gave him an excuse to admire her publicly. Pictures that weren’t filtered through the group dynamic or masked by friendship. Just her, in her natural light, with no one else competing for the moment. He thought about his phone then and cursed himself again for forgetting it. Not because of any urgent messages or missed calls, but because it held something much more personal. Hidden deep within his albums were photos of Stephanie—pictures he had snapped over the years when she wasn’t looking, or sometimes when she was, but didn’t think much of it. They weren’t creepy or invasive; Dom wasn’t that kind of man. They were simple—her laughing at something ridiculous Chris had said, her asleep on the couch after a movie night, her sitting quietly with a book in hand. He kept them not out of obsession, but because they reminded him of how much light she brought into his life just by existing in it.

He often scrolled through those pictures late at night when the world was quiet and his defences were down, allowing himself the briefest fantasy that maybe—just maybe—things could have been different. That in another world, one not so tangled in friendships and brotherhoods and secrets, he could have told her how he felt. That she might have looked at him not as her brother’s annoying best friend, but as someone she could have loved. But those were just fantasies, and Dom was grounded in reality. The reality where Stephanie belonged to someone else, and he was the guy on the sidelines, clapping for a game he could never play in. And so, he sat there, alone in his dimly lit apartment, staring at a moment frozen in time, haunted by the presence of someone who didn’t even know the power she held over him.

He decided to watch a movie, something that had become his nightly routine—a coping mechanism of sorts. Each time his mind wandered to the what-ifs that seemed to follow him like a shadow, particularly the ones that revolved around Stephanie, he reached for the remote like a lifeline. It was almost muscle memory at this point: the couch, the dim lighting, the soft hum of the television as he scrolled through options, and the inevitable selection of a romantic film. He always chose a love story, usually one where the odds were stacked against the couple, but love triumphed in the end. There was something strangely comforting in seeing people find their way to each other, even if it was just fiction. For him, it was a way of feeding his starving heart—allowing himself to feel the warmth of love, even if it wasn’t his own. He wasn’t living a fairytale, but seeing someone else’s—even on a screen—helped him sleep at night.

At first, when he was younger and hadn’t yet come to terms with the cruel reality of unrequited love, watching those movies filled him with hope. They made him believe in possibility. He would sit on the edge of his seat, clutching a pillow, eyes wide with wonder, convinced that maybe the universe would write his story just like that. Maybe Stephanie would look at him one day and realize he had always been there, quietly loving her, waiting for the moment she would see him not as her brother’s best friend but as the man who knew her better than anyone else. Back then, every romantic plot twist was a message from the cosmos—a whispered promise that love was patient and kind and eventually rewarding. He believed that if he just waited long enough, if he just loved her purely and silently, it would all fall into place, just like it did in the films.

But time had a way of unravelling dreams, and now that same genre that once filled him with anticipation only served as a bittersweet reminder of what he didn’t have. These days, romantic movies didn’t spark hope—they offered temporary relief. They were like medicine for a pain he had grown used to living with. He no longer imagined himself as the male lead winning the girl’s heart; now, he was just an observer, quietly rooting for the characters on screen while accepting that his own story would never unfold that way. Still, it made him feel less alone to know that love, even if only fictional, still existed somewhere. The laughter, the confessions, the quiet moments—he watched them not to see himself in them, but to remind himself that the feeling he had buried wasn’t wrong. It was human. It was real. And maybe, just maybe, there was some comfort in that.

He fell asleep long before the movie reached its final act, missing the scene where the couple would either overcome their challenges and walk into a sunset together or fall apart and go their separate ways with bittersweet goodbyes. He didn’t even get to see the turning point, the emotional climax where everything either breaks or mends—something he always looked forward to, as if watching those characters fight for their love could teach him how to fight for his own, even if he never intended to. But this time, sleep caught up with him before the story did. It pulled him under with the heavy hands of exhaustion, and he didn't even resist. The weight of the day was pressing down on him, settling deep in his bones, and his body surrendered without a second thought. The movie’s soft background music became a lullaby, and the flickering screen was a dim nightlight that didn't disturb the quiet that wrapped around him like a blanket.

His body was tired, yes, but so was his heart. He had run around all day, doing favours for Chris, helping with wedding plans, pretending not to care, pretending not to feel. Then he had sat in his car for hours outside Stephanie’s apartment, his mind a mess of longing and restraint, watching Michael walk into a space he wished belonged to him—into a heart he had never been able to claim. He hadn’t slept at all during that silent vigil, and now that he was finally back home, his system was begging for rest. There was a strange kind of ache in his chest—not quite pain, but not peace either. Just a dull, constant presence that reminded him that he was still holding onto something he should’ve let go of years ago. But he couldn’t. Even in sleep, he clung to the fragments of her smile, the echo of her laughter, and the ghost of a kiss he had left on her forehead without permission. As the movie rolled on and the city slipped into the early morning, Dom slept like a man who had run out of ways to stay awake—drained from loving in silence and from watching someone else be loved in the way he had only dreamed of.