I couldn’t answer. My breath came ragged, and the shame hit harder than the pain.
Cindy murmured something about rest days and pacing, her voice soft but distant. I only saw Adrian—jaw tight, eyes shining with something halfway between fury and fear.
He crouched in front of me, hand shaking as he placed an ice pack on my leg. “You could’ve torn something.”
“I didn’t,” I muttered.
“Youcould have.”His voice cracked. “Do you even care what that would’ve done to you?”
I stared at him, and the words caught somewhere in my throat. “You mean what it would’ve done toyou.”
That landed. I saw it in the flicker of his expression, the muscle that jumped in his jaw before he looked away.
The therapist excused herself, giving us a moment.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the heat drain out of me, leaving only the ache. “I just need to get better,” I whispered. “I need to be ready.”
“For what?” Adrian asked, his voice rough.
I hesitated. Then, softer, “For whatever comes next.”
He went still. The meaning had finally hit him. Neither of us said another word.
The ride home was quiet at first, just the sound of tires humming against asphalt and the faint rattle of the ice pack. My leg throbbed under it, a dull rhythm that matched the pounding behind my eyes.
Adrian’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. I could feel the words he wasn’t saying, the way they built in his throat, pressing against his teeth. He always had something to say when I was being reckless. Today, though, he kept it buried.
We hit a red light, and he glanced at me. “You could’ve torn your quad,” he said finally, voice flat.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point, Eli.”
“Then whatisthe point?”
He gave a sharp, bitter laugh that didn’t sound like him. “The point is, I’m trying to keep you from ending up in another hospital bed.”
I looked out the window, jaw tight. The world blurred past—kids walking home from school, a couple arguing at a bus stop, normal life playing out as if we weren’t both barely holding it together.
“I’m just trying to get strong again. That’s all.”
“You’re trying to outrun what happened,” he shot back. “And you can’t.”
That stung because it was true. Still, I didn’t look at him. “What if I’m not trying to outrun it? What if I’m just… getting ready?”
“For what?” he asked, the same question as before, quieter this time, almost pleading.
I swallowed. “For when you realize you don’t have to stay.”
The words sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Adrian stared straight ahead, and for a moment I thought he might actually pull over.
Instead, he exhaled hard, gripping the wheel like he wanted to crush it. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t write my story for me.”
We didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.
When we got home, Adrian helped me inside, silent butefficient. He set me up on the couch with a fresh ice pack and a glass of water, his movements careful, almost mechanical. I could feel him pulling away, same as before. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, opening cabinets, clattering dishes—noise for the sake of noise.
I sat there chewing over my words, feeling like an ass. Every sound he made was extra loud, deliberate. It felt like we were both pretending not to be angry, not to be terrified.
