Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 52

Caleb’s POV

Some places hold the weight of who we used to be, before life taught us to become someone else.

I can’t breathe in the house anymore.

The tension with Serena lingers in every room like smoke that won’t clear.

Our parents move through the hallways with oblivious happiness, discussing wedding venues and future grandchildren while we pretend last night’s fight didn’t happen.

The walls seem to close in tighter with every hour, pressing against my chest until my lungs forget how to expand.

I grab my keys and leave without telling anyone where I’m going.

The drive passes in a blur of familiar roads and bare winter trees, instinct guiding me toward the one place that’s always offered silence when the world gets too loud.

I don’t think about where I’m headed—I just let the car carry me there, following a path worn into muscle memory by years of escaping to this corner of the woods.

The clearing opens up through the trees, the old oak standing sentinel at its center, the mossy swing hanging from its thick branch like it’s been waiting for me.

But when I pull to a stop and step out of the car, I realize I’m not alone.

Serena sits on the swing, her feet barely touching the ground, her honey-blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders.

Even from this distance, I can see the tracks of tears streaking her cheeks—evidence she clearly thought no one would witness.

She startles at the sound of my footsteps crunching through dead leaves, her head snapping up with the defensive posture of someone caught in a moment of weakness.

Her hands fly to her face, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her palm.

“How did you find this place?” The demand comes out brittle, sharp-edged with embarrassment.

I stare at her, the impossibility of this moment settling over me like a second skin.

“I’ve been coming here since I was twelve.” The words feel strange in my mouth, carrying weight I didn’t know they held. “How did you find it?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with a coincidence too perfect to be random.

The clearing. The oak. The swing.

We both remember this place from childhood—before our parents met, before our families merged into one awkward unit, before everything between us became tangled and forbidden.

We used to play here together when we were kids, hiding from adults who talked too long at neighborhood barbecues, pushing each other on this very swing until our laughter echoed through the trees.

I remember her then. Eight years old with skinned knees and a gap-toothed smile, fearless in ways she’s since learned to hide.

I remember thinking she was annoying and wonderful in equal measure, the way only children can hold contradictions without conflict.

Neither of us knew the other still came here.

The tenderness of it feels almost cruel—discovering that we’ve both been seeking refuge in the same secret place, orbiting each other even when we tried to stay apart.

Like the universe keeps drawing us together no matter how hard we fight against the current.

I lower myself to the ground near the swing, my back settling against the oak’s rough bark.

The cold seeps through my jacket, but I don’t move. Instead, I tip my head back and look up at the branches spreading overhead, tracing patterns against the grey winter sky.

“Our paths keep crossing.” I throw the words out without looking at her. “Even when we try to stay apart. It’s like some kind of curse we can’t outrun.”

Serena doesn’t answer. She just stares at the trees, her silence heavy with things she’s not ready to say. The swing creaks softly as she shifts her weight, the sound familiar and strange all at once.

We sit together for a long time.

No fighting, no ultimatums, no manipulation or accusations designed to wound. Just two people exhausted from performing for everyone else, finally allowed to stop pretending.

The quiet settles around us like a blanket, and for the first time in weeks, the pressure in my chest begins to ease.

This is what we could have been. If circumstances were different. If our parents hadn’t married. If we’d met again as strangers instead of stepsiblings.

“Dad married Catherine six months after she died. Six months. And I know it’s not Catherine’s fault. She’s been nothing but kind to me, nothing but patient with my awkwardness and my distance.”

“But no one ever asked if I was ready. No one checked whether I’d finished grieving before they handed me a new family and expected me to be grateful.”

There it is. The wound beneath all her other wounds.

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