_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

And yet just a few months ago, I was feeling better, I was getting
better. I was fine. I was sleeping. I didn’t live in fear of the nightmares. I
could breathe. Yes, I still wanted to run away. Sometimes. But not every
day.
Talking to Kamal helped me, there’s no denying that. I liked it. I liked
him. He made me happier. And now all that feels so unfinished—I never
got to the crux of it. That’s my fault, of course, because I behaved
stupidly, like a child, because I didn’t like feeling rejected. I need to
learn to lose a little better. I’m embarrassed now, ashamed. My face goes
hot at the thought of it. I don’t want that to be his final impression of me.
I want him to see me again, to see me better. And I do feel that if I went
to him, he would help. He’s like that.
I need to get to the end of the story. I need to tell someone, just once.
Say the words out loud. If it doesn’t come out of me, it’ll eat me up. The
hole inside me, the one they left, it’ll just get bigger and bigger until it
consumes me.
I’m going to have to swallow my pride and my shame and go to him.
He’s going to have to listen. I’ll make him.
EVENING
Scott thinks I’m at the cinema with Tara. I’ve been outside Kamal’s flat
for fifteen minutes, psyching myself up to knock on the door. I’m so
afraid of the way he’s going to look at me, after last time. I have to show
him that I’m sorry, so I’ve dressed the part: plain and simple, jeans and
T-shirt, hardly any makeup. This is not about seduction, he has to see
that.
I can feel my heart starting to race as I step up to his front door and
press the bell. No one comes. The lights are on, but no one comes.
Perhaps he has seen me outside, lurking; perhaps he’s upstairs, just
hoping that if he ignores me I’ll go away. I won’t. He doesn’t know how
determined I can be. Once I’ve made my mind up, I’m a force to be
reckoned with.
I ring again, and then a third time, and finally I hear footsteps on the
stairs and the door opens. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a white T-
shirt. He’s barefoot, wet-haired, his face flushed.
“Megan.” Surprised, but not angry, which is a good start. “Are you all
right? Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and he steps back to let me in. I feel a rush of
gratitude so strong, it feels almost like love.