The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 391

Garrison had always suffered from a bad stomach. It flared up when he stayed up late, when he skipped meals, or when he drank too much coffee.

Tonight, he had hit the trifecta—he hadn't slept, he had skipped dinner, and the two cups of cold water in the reception room were the only things he had consumed since noon yesterday...

Every step he had run earlier added another degree of pressure to the metaphorical hand crushing his stomach. Now, that grip was iron-tight, the knuckles grinding against his stomach lining, twisting relentlessly.

But he didn't stop.

Pressing a hand hard against his abdomen, he straightened his posture and forced himself to walk toward the next shop.

*

Meanwhile.

Fully satiated, Sloane Taylor strapped her cello to her back and walked out of the diner.

The moment she pushed open the glass door, the damp night wind whipped rain into her face, and she let out a small, satisfied burp.

The storm had intensified into a torrential downpour, the heavy drops smashing against the pavement and kicking up a white mist. The entire street looked like it was submerged under a shimmering, shattered reflection of city lights...

She opened the clear plastic umbrella she had borrowed from the diner's owner, adjusted the straps of her cello, and stepped out into the rain.

The transparent canopy glowed faintly under the streetlamps. Raindrops pelted the surface, pooling into tiny streams that slid down the ribs of the umbrella, shattering into a miniature waterfall at her feet.

She walked slowly.

People with full stomachs rarely rushed, and she was in no hurry to get anywhere. At two-thirty in the morning, the night market was winding down. Vendors were packing up, and the clatter of metal frames and the loud rattling of rolling shutters echoed rhythmically through the rain.

For a split second, their eyes met through the impenetrable curtain of rain. Sloane watched his Adam's apple bob, saw his hand unconsciously fall away from his stomach, and noticed his chest heave as he took a deep breath. Then, he sprinted toward her.

His strides were long and desperate. Muddy water splashed up, soaking his pants completely, but he didn't care at all.

Just two steps away from her, he abruptly skidded to a halt.

The stop was so jarring it looked as if an invisible rope tied to his chest had been violently yanked backward, anchoring him in place. His upper body leaned forward, but his feet were glued to the pavement. He raised his arms an inch, his hands hovering in the air with trembling fingers, as if he wanted to pull her into his arms but was terrified she would flinch away.

Slowly, he lowered his hands.

He stood there in the pouring rain, just inches outside the shelter of her umbrella. His entire body was shivering—whether from the freezing cold, the agonizing stomach cramps, or something else entirely—before he finally managed to speak.

"Sloane, I finally found you."