Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 135: Memories Don’t Make the Man

Chapter 135: Memories Don’t Make the Man

The dining table was set neatly — water glasses filled, napkins folded with precision.

Their mother had outdone herself again grilled chicken with herbs, soft rice, vegetable stew steaming gently in a ceramic bowl, and fresh bread in a basket lined with cloth.

Billy sat across from Mr. Sandoval, with Camila at the side, already picking at the bread.

"Did you taste the sauce?" Camila said, eyes wide as she spooned some onto her plate. "Mom went full chef mode today. Said she wanted it to feel like a welcome back feast."

Billy gave a soft smile.

"She succeeded."

Mr. Sandoval cut into his chicken with surgical precision.

"Food is only as good as the conversation it accompanies."

"Then this meal’s about to be five stars," Camila said, winking.

Billy glanced between them, amused and quietly observing. It wasn’t awkward, just... unfamiliar.

The sounds of forks against ceramic filled the silence for a beat. Then Camila leaned over.

"So... no one’s gonna ask me how I *personally carried this entire household in your absence?"

Billy raised a brow.

"You lived here alone for, what, two days?"

"And in that time, I scheduled doctor appointments, managed a full phone call with Mom without losing my mind, and kept your plants alive. Barely."

"You watered one cactus."

"Exactly. So much pressure."

Mr. Sandoval gave a small exhale — almost a chuckle, though he’d never admit it. He looked at Billy.

"Your mother said you’ll be meeting with Dr. Harris again soon?"

Billy nodded, carefully.

"Yes. There’s still more to understand."

"Understanding is a start. But clarity must lead to action."

Camila jumped in lightly.

"Dad, we’re still digesting. Let’s not turn the chicken into a career seminar."

Mr. Sandoval raised a brow but didn’t argue. He glanced back at Billy — a quiet moment of eye contact — then refocused on his plate.

They ate in relative peace after that.

Camila talked a bit about her class project — something to do with sculpture and music and "chaotic genius energy," whatever that meant.

Billy listened more than he spoke. Not because he didn’t have anything to say... but because watching this family move around him was like slowly learning the rhythm of an old song he used to know.

Every now and then, Camila would nudge his knee under the table. Just enough to remind him: you’re here now.

And for now... that was enough.

The clatter of cutlery quieted. Camila gathered the plates with a grin, waving off any attempt from Billy to help.

"Nope. You were the guest of honor. Guests don’t do dishes."

"I literally lived here."

"Then consider it retroactive VIP status."

Billy smirked softly as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Mr. Sandoval stood from his seat, folding his napkin with exact precision before placing it on the table.

"Leon."

Billy looked up.

"Yes, sir?"

Mr. Sandoval paused. Just briefly. Then:

"Come to my study. When you’re ready."

He didn’t smile or press—just waited with that silent expectation that spoke louder than words.

Billy nodded.

"Okay."

With that, Mr. Sandoval turned and walked away — back straight, movements deliberate — disappearing down the hall toward his room.

Billy remained seated, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his glass. His chest was still, but there was a heaviness that settled in the silence he left behind.

Camila peeked from the kitchen doorway.

"He’s gonna talk to you."

"I figured."

"Don’t get stiff," she said, voice gentler now. "He’s not trying to bite your head off."

Billy looked toward the hall, his expression unreadable.

"He doesn’t have to bite. He just stares, and I feel like I should be doing calculus."

Camila snorted and tossed a dish towel over her shoulder.

"He’s not as scary as you think."

Billy gave her a sideways glance.

"You say that because he turns into a teddy bear around you."

"Not my fault I’m charming."

He smiled faintly. Then fell quiet.

She tilted her head, watching him.

"You okay?"

He hesitated.

"I’m not sure yet."

Camila walked over, leaned down, and gently ruffled his hair — like she used to when they were younger.

"You’ll be fine. Just... be whatever version of you feels real right now. He’ll deal."

"I don’t even know who that is right now."

"Then wing it," she said with a wink. "You’re an actor, remember?"

Billy huffed a dry laugh.

"Unfortunately."

She stepped back, nodding toward the hallway.

"Go. I’ll even make you a tea."

Billy stood outside the door to his father’s study.The kind of quiet that made every doubt sound louder.

He raised his hand. Paused. Then knocked — once.

"Come in."

His father’s voice — calm. Measured.

Billy turned the handle, the door creaking open slowly.

And stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, each packed with books arranged by subject, by author — by logic.

A heavy desk sat near the window, its surface immaculate, save for a few neatly stacked documents and an open leather-bound planner.

Mr. Sandoval sat behind the desk, spectacles low on his nose, pen in hand as he reviewed a paper — quiet, absorbed. The ticking of the wall clock filled the silence with rhythm.

Billy stood just inside the door, unsure if he should sit... or wait.

His father didn’t look up.

"Sit."

A single word — even-toned, direct.

Billy obeyed, settling into the chair opposite the desk. The leather creaked softly beneath him.

They sat like that for a while — the quiet not quite comfortable, but not cold either.

Mr. Sandoval’s pen moved, slow and deliberate. A signature. A line crossed out.

Only when he reached the final page did he place the pen aside, remove his glasses, and fold his hands.

Then he looked at Billy.

"Have you spoken to Eleanor?"

Billy blinked.

"Eleanor...?"

"Your fiancée."

Billy sat back slightly.

"No. I didn’t met her."

Mr. Sandoval’s brow tightened just slightly.

"The engagement was formal. Arranged before graduation. I assumed your mother mentioned it."

"Yes she did."

A pause.

"We didn’t... get that far yet."

Mr. Sandoval exhaled through his nose, gaze lowering for a moment.

"She visited while you were missing. Frequently. Your disappearance was... difficult for her. For everyone."

Billy’s eyes dropped to his lap.

"I’m sorry."

His father studied him — not with anger, but with calculation. Then:

"We’ll revisit the conversation. When you’re ready."

Billy didn’t reply. He only gave a faint nod — one he wasn’t sure he meant.

Mr. Sandoval stood slowly, walking toward the cabinet at the back of the room. He poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter, then turned to face his son again.

"Now, about work."

Billy’s fingers gripped the edge of the chair slightly.

"I haven’t decided anything."

"You don’t need to decide. You simply need to begin again."

"What if I don’t want to?"billy asked voice low.

The words left before he could stop them.

Mr. Sandoval didn’t react with surprise. He took a quiet sip from the glass, then placed it gently on the desk.

"You’ve always been talented. Disciplined. But discipline without direction wastes itself."

"Maybe I want to choose my own direction."

Another silence.

Mr. Sandoval didn’t argue. He simply nodded, slowly.

"Then choose something. But don’t drift."

Billy looked away.

The silence stretched again — not cold, not warm. Just... there.

Then, after a pause, Mr. Sandoval sat again.

"Dr. Harris updated me."

Billy looked back at him — startled but not surprised.

"He said it might require surgery."

"He said it will," Mr. Sandoval corrected. "I’ve asked him to prepare everything. Within two days, the operation will be set."

Billy swallowed.

"That fast?"

"You’ve wasted enough time."

The words weren’t cruel. They were... final.

Billy looked down again, eyes unfocused.

"I don’t even know if I’m ready."

Mr. Sandoval didn’t reply right away. Then:

"Then use the next two days to get ready."

He stood, returning the glass to the cabinet. His steps were quiet, measured.

"That’s all for now. You may go."

Billy rose slowly, unsure what to feel. He turned toward the door — then paused, looking back.

He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the control. But the truth hung heavy in his chest—gratitude and resentment wrapped tight. So he said it anyway.

"Thank you... for setting things up."

Mr. Sandoval nodded once.

"It’s my job to protect my family. I’ll always do that."

And with that, Billy stepped out — leaving the door to click softly shut behind him.

Billy stepped out of the study with the quiet click of the door behind him. The hallway stretched ahead — warm lights humming softly above, the living room distant to the left.

But he didn’t stop there. Didn’t glance toward the parlor. Didn’t say anything.

He just walked — slow and heavy — until he reached his room.

The door closed behind him.

Inside, the air felt still. Familiar, yet new. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. The kind of silence that doesn’t soothe — it clings.

Seconds later, the door opened again — no knock.

"You didn’t look okay."

Camila stepped in, closing the door softly behind her.

Billy didn’t look up.

"I’m fine."

She exhaled.

"You’re such a bad liar. You always were."

She crossed the room and sat beside him on the bed. Not too close — just close enough.

He didn’t say anything.

"Did he overwhelm you?"

Billy gave a small, bitter chuckle.

"He didn’t raise his voice once."

Camila exhale "That’s not what I asked."

He finally turned his head toward her — eyes tired, expression unreadable.

"He arranged the surgery. Said it’s happening in two days."

"...That soon?"

Billy nodded slowly.

Camila frowned, gently folding her hands in her lap.

"You didn’t want it that fast do you?"

"I don’t even know what I want." He let out a breath. "He just... decided."

Camila tilted her head, watching him carefully.

"Leon... you can still say no."

"And then what?" His voice wasn’t angry — just quiet. "He thinks I’m drifting. That I’m wasting time. That I need structure before I get lost again."

She hesitated. Then reached for his hand.

"Do you think you’re drifting?"

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to their linked hands.

"I think... I’m scared I won’t remember anything even after the surgery. That all of this—" He gestured vaguely — the house, the people, himself. "—will still feel borrowed."

Camila leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Then maybe don’t do it for the memories. Do it so you stop living in limbo."

Billy closed his eyes, letting her weight settle against him.

"He asked me about Eleanor."

"Eleanor...?" Then her eyes widened. "Oh. Eleanor."

"I was engaged, apparently."

"Yeah that’s wild."

"You met her?"he asked

"Twice. She was beautiful. And... so boring I forgot her voice."

He huffed softly.

"That sounds about right."

They stayed like that — quiet, breathing, side by side.

After a moment, Camila whispered:

"You don’t have to become who you were. Just... become someone you can live with."

Billy didn’t speak. But the nod came—slow, small, like a crack in the stillness.

Camila didn’t push. She just stayed beside him.

And for now, that was enough.