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It's simple, and maybe it shouldn't mean much, but it does.
"Derek got out with me," I continue, the words feeling like boulders rolling off my tongue. "Carries his own scars."
Sasha reaches out then hesitates, her hand hanging in the air before she pulls back. "You're not alone in this."
I want to believe her; part of me does. But there's another part that wonders if letting someone see the cracks is just inviting them to fall into the chasm with me.
"I know," I manage to say. And for now, that has to be enough.
The engine's low growl cuts out as I pull the car to the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel. I stare out into the darkness, pretending I need to stretch my legs. The truth is, I'm running from something much scarier than any physical threat.
"What's up?" Sasha's voice is tinged with concern, slicing through the silence that wraps around us like a thick fog.
"Just needed a break," I lie smoothly, but there's a tremor in my hands that betrays me.
I step out of the car and lean against the hood, feeling its residual warmth. Above us, the sky is an inky canvas dotted with stars. It's too beautiful, too vast—it makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
What if she sees me as broken? The thought echoes in my head like a haunting refrain.
I can't look at her yet. Can't face those searching eyes that might just unravel me completely.
"Everything okay?" Sasha joins me outside, her presence a reminder of why I'm fighting this internal battle.
I drag in a deep breath of night air, trying to steady myself. Can I risk showing her my darkest moments?
Her hand hovers near my arm, not touching but offering silent support. How can she stand there and look at me like I'm someone worth holding onto?
I force myself to meet her gaze, searching for a sign of revulsion or pity. Instead, all I see is warmth and... understanding?
"I don't want you to think less of me," I admit with a rawness that feels like it's tearing something inside.
She shakes her head slowly. "Axel, sharing your pain doesn't make you weak—it makes you human."
It's as if she's given me permission to shed a layer of armor I didn't even realize I was wearing. The relief is immediate and terrifying all at once.
Her fingers finally bridge the gap between us, resting lightly on my forearm. "We've all got scars," she says softly. "They don’t make up who we are; they're just part of our story."
In this quiet stretch of road under the watchful eye of the cosmos, something shifts within me—a tectonic plate of emotion that's been locked in place for too long.
I nod, allowing her words to sink in and soothe the turmoil that's been raging inside me since... well, since forever it seems.
We don't speak as we climb back into the car; words are superfluous now. But as we continue our journey toward Pine Haven, there's a silent agreement hanging in the air between us—an unspoken vow that from here on out, we face our vulnerabilities together.
The world outside is a shadow play, trees and road signs flitting by in the periphery of our makeshift sanctuary. I lean back against the leather seat, feeling its firmness against my spine. Sasha's presence beside me is a silent anchor in the dark sea of my own thoughts.
She's quiet for a moment, and I can almost hear her organizing her words, arranging them like soldiers before a battle.
"Strength isn't just about holding up walls, Axel. It's about letting them down too," she says, her voice steady but gentle. "And vulnerability... that's the bravest thing of all."
I draw in a deep breath, her words slicing through years of conditioning—years of believing that to reveal is to risk destruction.
"I guess I've always seen strength as a way to protect—not just others, but myself," I confess, staring straight ahead. "But it gets... lonely behind those walls."
I feel her gaze on me, patient and unwavering.
"Yeah," she whispers. "It does."
We sit in the silence that follows, and it wraps around us like a comforting blanket rather than an oppressive fog. The night presses close against the windows of the car, but inside this space, there's an odd sense of safety.
