Kiki .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

“That girl didn’t want to die, she just wanted out of that house.”

You could feel the nausea clawing its way up your throat the second you stepped off the school bus. The humid air clung to your skin, making it hard to breathe, while every sound around you seemed unbearably loud—the chatter of students, the squeal of the bus driving away, even the tiny keychains hanging from your backpack jingling with every shaky step you took toward home. Your breathing was the worst of all, uneven and panicked, as if your lungs were struggling to keep up with the anxiety burning through your body. Ever since you were little, violence had been normal in your household. There was never a quiet day without your parents screaming at each other. But today had been different. Worse. Before school, in the middle of another explosive fight, they had turned their anger toward you, their voices sharp enough to cut through the room while plates shattered against the walls and picture frames crashed onto the floor, glass scattering everywhere. It had never gotten that bad before, and the memory of it still made your hands shake. You weren’t afraid of the yelling anymore—you were afraid of not knowing what would happen next. That uncertainty sat heavily in your chest, sending chills down your spine despite the suffocating heat outside. Sweat stuck to the back of your neck as you walked up the driveway, silently counting in your head to keep yourself grounded. 1…2…3… Your fingers tightened around the house keys your mother had given you “just in case” they came home late, the cold metal digging into your palm as you unlocked the front door. For a brief second, you hesitated, praying the house would be quiet for once, but the moment the door creaked open, the sound of the television drifted through the hallway, quickly drowned out by the familiar sound of yelling once again.

The moment the yelling reached your ears, your entire body tensed so hard it hurt. You shut the door quietly behind you, hoping somehow they wouldn’t notice you were home yet, but the walls of the house practically vibrated with their screaming. Your father’s voice thundered from the living room while your mother shouted over him, both of them throwing words back and forth so carelessly that it was impossible to tell where the argument had even started anymore. The television blared in the background, some random sitcom laugh track playing at the worst possible moments, almost mocking the chaos unfolding around it. You slipped your shoes off slowly, careful not to make noise, your heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears you were convinced they could hear it too. The shattered picture frame from that morning still lay in the hallway, tiny pieces of glass catching the dim light as you stepped around them. Nobody had bothered cleaning it up. Of course they hadn’t. They never cleaned up after the damage they caused, not physically and definitely not emotionally. Your chest tightened as you stared at the broken family photo still trapped inside the cracked frame, your own smiling face staring back at you from happier years that barely even felt real anymore. Sometimes you wondered if every family secretly lived like this behind closed doors and were just better at hiding it, or if you had somehow gotten unlucky enough to be born into a house where love only existed in brief moments between explosions. School wasn’t much better either. People always talked about home like it was some safe place they couldn’t wait to get back to, but for you, home felt like walking into a battlefield every single day without knowing where the next hit would come from. It was exhausting pretending to be normal all the time, pretending the dark circles under your eyes were from staying up late on your phone instead of listening to your parents scream until two in the morning. Pretending the flinch in your shoulders whenever someone raised their voice was normal. Pretending you weren’t constantly jealous of classmates complaining about stupid things like strict curfews or parents asking too many questions, because at least their parents cared enough to notice them. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself toward your room while the argument only grew louder behind you, each word hitting like a punch to the chest. Then your father suddenly yelled your name from the living room, and the fear that rushed through your body was immediate and sharp, like your heart had completely stopped beating for one horrible second.

Your stomach dropped the second your name left his mouth. Everything inside you screamed to keep walking, to lock yourself in your room and pretend you hadn’t heard him, but you already knew that would only make things worse. Slowly, you turned toward the living room, your pulse hammering so violently it made your hands shake. The air in the house felt thick, suffocating, carrying the sharp smell of alcohol and the lingering scent of something burnt from earlier. Your mother stood near the kitchen doorway with tears streaking down her face, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, while your father paced back and forth like a ticking bomb ready to explode again. The second he looked at you, it felt like being caught in the middle of a wildfire. “Look who finally decided to come home,” he snapped, his voice dripping with irritation like your existence alone had somehow offended him. You opened your mouth, ready to apologize even though you hadn’t done anything wrong, because apologizing had become instinct at this point, but the words got stuck in your throat. Your mother scoffed bitterly and crossed her arms, mumbling something about how you were “just like him,” while your father immediately fired back that you were “becoming just like her.” Back and forth. Back and forth. Like you weren’t even a person standing there, just another object they could throw at each other to win an argument. Your chest tightened painfully as heat rushed to your face, embarrassment and anger mixing together until you couldn’t tell which one hurt more. You wanted to scream at them to stop. To stop dragging you into their mess, to stop acting like you were responsible for the cracks in their marriage, to stop making you feel like every problem in the house somehow traced back to you. But instead, you just stood there frozen, nails digging crescent marks into your palms while tears burned at the corners of your eyes. Because no matter how angry you got, no matter how badly you wanted to defend yourself, a part of you still felt like that little kid hiding in their bedroom with headphones on, trying to drown out the fighting downstairs. And honestly? That was the worst part. Realizing that after all these years, after every slammed door and broken plate and sleepless night, you still secretly hoped one day they’d wake up and become the kind of parents you saw in movies—the kind that hugged their kids after bad days instead of making them feel like one.

But your family wasn’t some perfect sitcom family that sat around the dinner table laughing over stupid jokes and asking each other about their day. It was messy and weird and completely fucked up in ways you didn’t even know how to explain to other people anymore. The kind of family that looked almost normal from the outside until you stepped through the front door and realized every room was filled with tension so thick it felt impossible to breathe. You had grown so used to it over the years that it should’ve stopped affecting you by now, but somehow it never did. Every slammed cabinet still made you flinch. Every raised voice still sent panic rushing through your chest like ice water. You hated that about yourself. Hated how weak it made you feel. So pathetic, you thought bitterly, staring at the floor while your parents continued tearing each other apart around you. “Oh my god, look at her,” your mother laughed harshly through tears, gesturing toward you. “You’re scaring the kid.” “I’m scaring her?” your father snapped back immediately. “You’re the one acting fucking insane right now.” “Maybe I wouldn’t act insane if you actually did something around here for once.” “There you go again—everything’s my fault, right?” “Because it is!” Their voices overlapped so loudly that it became impossible to separate one from the other, each sentence sharper than the last. You could feel your breathing speeding up again, your chest tightening painfully as the argument spiraled higher and higher. “Can you both just stop?” you finally blurted out, your voice cracking embarrassingly halfway through. Silence hit the room for a split second. Both of them looked at you, almost surprised you were still standing there. Your father scoffed first. “Don’t raise your voice at me.” The words hit instantly, making guilt twist violently in your stomach even though you knew you hadn’t done anything wrong. “I-I wasn’t—” “Then don’t start acting disrespectful,” he interrupted coldly. Your mother shook her head, rubbing at her temples. “See? This is exactly what I mean. She’s stressed out all the time because of this house.” “Oh, don’t pull that guilt trip bullshit on me,” your father muttered. “You think I don’t notice?” she shot back. “She barely talks anymore. She stays locked in her room all day.” Your throat tightened painfully because your mother was right. You did stay locked away. It was the only place in the house that almost felt safe, even though you still heard everything through the walls anyway. Sometimes you’d sit on your bedroom floor with your headphones turned up all the way, trying to drown them out with music, but the yelling always found its way through eventually. It always did. “I’m going to my room,” you mumbled quietly, already turning away before either of them could stop you. “Yeah, run away like always,” your father called after you. That one hurt more than it should have. Your hand tightened around the staircase railing as tears blurred your vision again, anger and humiliation burning under your skin. Run away? As if hiding was some kind of choice. As if you hadn’t spent your entire life surviving whatever version of them walked through the house each day. The second you reached your room, you slammed the door shut and locked it, your shaking hands immediately covering your mouth to keep any sound from coming out. Then you slid down against the door onto the floor, knees pulled tightly to your chest while muffled yelling continued downstairs like some horrible soundtrack you could never escape from.You whispered to yourself through shaking breaths, “How do I keep living here… I can’t do this anymore,” your sobs becoming louder than the muffled arguing downstairs. Your chest ached so badly it felt like something heavy was sitting on top of it, crushing every breath before it could fully leave your lungs. Tears blurred your vision until your room melted into smudged colors and shadows, and with trembling hands, you reached into your pocket for your phone like it was the only lifeline you had left. The only person who ever

seemed to genuinely care about you was this guy named Toby Rogers from your pre-cal class. You met him through some stupid group project a few months ago, and somehow the two of you clicked almost instantly. At first, you thought he was intimidating—quiet, awkward, always hiding behind the collar of his black turtlenecks while keeping his head down during class—but the more you talked to him, the more you realized he understood you in ways nobody else ever had. You told him things you’d never told anyone before, and somehow he always listened without judging you. He shared his own stories too, pieces of himself hidden underneath dry humor and awkward glances away whenever conversations got too personal. The two of you became inseparable after that. Every lunch period was spent together in the school library, sitting on the dusty carpeted floor between shelves while laughing over weird books nobody else cared about. One book you both obsessed over was Bones and All because it fit both of you a little too perfectly—two messed up people trying desperately to survive themselves and the world around them. And honestly? Somewhere between those quiet library lunches and late-night texts that lasted until three in the morning, you realized you had feelings for him. Real feelings. Which felt strange because you usually crushed on people who seemed untouchable—alternative celebrities, actors like Ryan Gosling when he was younger, people who existed safely behind screens where they couldn’t hurt you. But Toby was different. Real. He wore the same dark turtlenecks almost every day, and thick bandages always wrapped around one side of his cheek like he was trying to hide part of himself from the world. He was around 5’6, average height for a guy, but painfully thin, all sharp shoulders and bony wrists hidden beneath oversized hoodies. People at school constantly whispered about him, called him weird behind his back, laughed whenever he twitched too hard or avoided eye contact for too long. And on top of all that, Toby couldn’t feel pain. Literally. He once told you casually during lunch while flipping through a book that he had a condition that made it impossible for him to feel physical pain or even sweat properly, and the way he said it—so numb and detached—made your chest hurt worse than any pity ever could. You hated how cruel people were to him. Maybe because you understood what it felt like to be treated like something broken. With tears streaming down your face like waterfalls, your vision blurry and your phone screen damp beneath your fingers, you finally opened your messages and clicked on his contact. The screen shook in your hands as you typed, desperately trying to keep your breathing steady enough to form coherent words while the yelling downstairs continued like a storm tearing your house apart.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few shaky seconds before you finally typed, “Toby, I can’t do this.. I can’t, it’s getting worse.” The message sat there for a moment, the little blue send arrow staring back at you almost mockingly, like even your phone was hesitating. But eventually, you pressed it anyway. The second it delivered, regret twisted in your stomach. You hated being vulnerable. Hated feeling like some fragile, pathetic mess dumping her problems onto someone else. Your thumb quickly moved to lock your phone, but before you could, the screen lit up almost instantly with his name. Toby Rogers. Your heart clenched painfully. He replied so fast it was obvious he had been awake already. “What happened?” Simple. Direct. So painfully him. More tears slipped down your cheeks as you stared at the message, your breathing uneven while yelling echoed faintly through the floorboards beneath your bedroom. You swallowed hard before typing again. “They’re fighting again. Worse than before. I think my dad’s drunk. I don’t know what to do anymore.”Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Came back. You could practically picture him on the other side of the screen sitting hunched over in his dark bedroom, sleeves pulled over his hands, messy hair falling into his eyes while he thought carefully about what to say. Toby always did that—he treated your feelings like they mattered, like one wrong sentence could break you further. “Are you safe?” Your chest tightened painfully at the question because you didn’t even know how to answer it anymore. Physically? Probably. Emotionally? Not even close. You wiped your face aggressively with your sleeve before typing back, “I guess.” Another pause. Then your phone buzzed again. “That’s not a real answer and you know it.” Despite everything, despite the shaking in your hands and the screaming downstairs, a weak laugh escaped your throat because of course he’d say that. Of course he’d see right through you. He always did. You leaned your head back against your bedroom door, curling tighter into yourself while your screen glowed softly against your tear-stained face. “I’m just tired, Toby.” This time his response took longer. Long enough for your anxiety to start crawling under your skin again. Long enough for you to wonder if maybe you had finally become too much. Then your phone buzzed once more. “You wanna know something weird?” You blinked at the screen in confusion before typing back a hesitant, “What?” Almost immediately, his response came through. “Every time you say you’re tired, I get scared.” Your breath caught in your throat. The arguing downstairs faded into background noise for a split second as you reread the message over and over again. Because underneath Toby’s awkwardness and weird humor and quiet demeanor, there was always this terrifying honesty to him. Like he felt things too deeply but never knew how to say them normally. Another message appeared before you could answer. “I know what it sounds like when someone’s giving up.” The tears came harder after that, silent and overwhelming, slipping down your face while you pressed the sleeve of your hoodie against your mouth to stop yourself from making noise. And somewhere hundreds of thoughts and miles away, Toby Rogers sat staring at his own phone, probably just as helpless as you felt now.

Your hands shook so badly you almost dropped your phone while typing. The tears wouldn’t stop now, falling faster than you could wipe them away, soaking into the sleeves of your hoodie while the yelling downstairs continued like some endless storm beneath your feet. You stared at the glowing screen for a long moment before finally forcing yourself to type the words you had been swallowing down for months. “I feel unsafe.. and to be honest Toby, I don’t think I belong here… I need to be free.” The message sent instantly, and for the first time all night, the room felt completely silent. Not because the arguing had stopped—it hadn’t—but because your heartbeat was suddenly so loud it drowned everything else out. Three dots appeared almost immediately. Disappeared. Came back again. You could practically feel his panic through the screen. “What are you saying, Y/N?” Your throat tightened painfully at the message. You didn’t even fully know what you were trying to say. You just knew you were exhausted. Exhausted of waking up every morning already anxious to go home later. Exhausted of pretending you were okay at school while feeling like your entire life was collapsing in slow motion behind closed doors. Exhausted of carrying so much fear and anger and sadness all at once that it physically hurt to exist sometimes. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard again before you typed slowly, each word making your chest ache harder. “I want to not be here on this earth, Toby.” The second the message delivered, your stomach twisted violently with regret and fear. The typing bubble appeared instantly this time, frantic, disappearing and reappearing like he couldn’t think fast enough. Then finally: “Don’t say that.” Another message came right after it. “Please.” You squeezed your eyes shut as more tears slipped down your face. Downstairs, something slammed hard enough to rattle your bedroom walls, making you flinch violently, but your focus stayed locked on your phone. “I’m serious, Y/N,” he typed again. “Talk to me. Stay with me right now.” Your breathing came out shaky as you stared at the messages. Part of you wanted to throw your phone across the room and disappear under your blankets forever, but another part—the small exhausted part of you that still wanted someone to care—held onto every word he sent like a lifeline. “I just can’t do this anymore,” you admitted. “Every day feels worse. I feel trapped here.” The typing bubble appeared again instantly. “Then focus on getting through tonight. Just tonight. Don’t think about forever right now.” Your lips trembled because somehow Toby always knew exactly how to talk to you when your thoughts became too heavy. Never overly dramatic. Never fake positive. Just honest. Grounding. Real. “Can you lock your door?” he asked. You glanced toward it automatically, still pressed shut behind you. “It’s locked.” “Okay. Good.” Another pause. “Can you plug headphones in or put music on? Something quiet.” You shakily reached for your headphones beside your bed, your fingers fumbling with the cord before plugging them into your phone. The arguing downstairs still bled faintly through the floor, but softer now beneath the low music playing in one ear. “There,” you typed weakly. Toby replied almost instantly. “Good. Stay with me, alright? You don’t have to figure your whole life out tonight.” Your chest hurt painfully at the words because nobody had ever really said things like that to you before. Nobody had ever spoken to you like your existence mattered enough to fight for. And somewhere in his own dark room, probably sitting curled up with his sleeves pulled over his hands and his phone clutched tightly between pale fingers, Toby Rogers stayed awake with you while your world threatened to fall apart around you.

The argument downstairs only escalated, voices crashing through the walls so violently it felt like the entire house was shaking with it, something breaking again followed by your mother screaming over your father like neither of them even remembered you existed, and you curled tighter against your bedroom door as if it could somehow shield you from the sound, your phone trembling in your hands as you kept texting Toby through tears that wouldn’t stop falling; your vision blurred as you typed, “it’s getting worse, they’re screaming again,” and his replies kept coming instantly, steady and desperate in a way that made your chest ache, “I’m here,” “stay with me,” but it was hard to focus when every new crash from downstairs made you flinch so hard your whole body hurt, when your breathing kept stuttering like your lungs forgot how to work, and you pressed your forehead to your knees trying not to completely fall apart while texting him again, “I’m scared, Toby, I can still hear them, it feels like they’re right outside my door,” and another loud slam shook the floorboards making you gasp out a broken sob, your hands slipping on your phone as you clutched it like it was the only real thing left in the world, and when Toby replied “you’re in your room, you’re safe right now, stay with me,” it didn’t magically fix anything, it didn’t make the yelling stop or make the house feel less suffocating, but it gave you something to hold onto while you sat there shaking and crying silently into your sleeve, stuck between the chaos downstairs and the one person who was still on the other side of a screen refusing to let you disappear into it alone.

The yelling downstairs kept tearing through the house in waves—louder, closer, uglier—like it was crawling up the walls trying to reach you, and you were still frozen in place with your phone clutched in your hand, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks as Toby’s messages kept lighting up the screen unanswered, until that knock came again, soft but real, right against your window, and your whole body locked up instantly as your head snapped up, heart slamming so hard it made you dizzy; for a second you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, because no one ever knocked at your window, no one was supposed to be there, and when you finally forced yourself to look properly through the glass, your brain struggled to make sense of it—Toby. Outside. In a dark hoodie pulled over his thin frame, shoulders hunched slightly like he was bracing against the cold, standing awkwardly on the narrow ledge like it was completely normal to be there, his usual bandages gone so his face was fully visible for once, pale and tired and tense in a way you’d never seen in school, and his breath fogged faintly against the glass as he leaned closer and knocked again, quieter this time, like he was trying not to startle you more than you already were, and your chest tightened painfully because this didn’t feel real—it felt like another stress hallucination your mind was creating just to survive the noise downstairs—but then he lifted his hand slightly, hesitating, and mouthed something you couldn’t hear through the glass, his eyes fixed on you with this sharp, focused concern that made your throat burn all over again, and behind you the house erupted into another crash and your instinct was to flinch backward, but Toby didn’t look away from you even for a second, just stayed there in the cold air outside your window like he had decided that whatever was happening inside your house didn’t matter more than you in that moment, and your phone buzzed again in your hand at the exact same time, his message coming through: “Open the window. I’m here.” You hesitated only for a moment, your whole body shaking as another shout from downstairs cracked through the floorboards and made your chest tighten painfully, but the sound of Toby outside—another soft knock, patient and careful—was enough to push you past that last bit of fear, and your trembling fingers finally fumbled with the latch until it clicked open, the window creaking as you pushed it upward and immediately letting in a rush of cold air that hit your tear-stained face and made you shiver; everything outside suddenly felt too real compared to the chaos behind you, like stepping into a different world for a second, and you barely had time to process it before Toby carefully shifted his weight on the ledge and climbed inside, movements awkward but deliberate, like he’d replayed it in his head a hundred times before actually doing it, his shoes landing quietly on your bedroom floor before he straightened up and exhaled under his breath like he’d been holding his breath the entire time, his dark hoodie slightly wrinkled, his hair messy from the wind, and for the first time without bandages, his face looked exhausted in a way you’d never seen at school—real, unfiltered, and human in a way that made your throat tighten all over again; he glanced toward the ceiling as another crash echoed from downstairs, followed by muffled screaming that seemed to shake the walls themselves, and he let out a low, disbelieving murmur, “God… they are loud,” like he couldn’t fully comprehend the level of chaos you lived with every day, and that one simple sentence—quiet, almost gentle—was what finally broke something in you completely, because suddenly he wasn’t just a voice on your phone anymore or someone you sat with in the library pretending everything was normal, he was here, standing in the middle of your actual life, seeing it for what it really was, and before you could even think twice you crossed the room in a stumbling rush and threw your arms around him, gripping his hoodie so tightly your fingers ached as your sobs

came out raw and uncontrollable, your whole body shaking against him as if you were trying to hold yourself together by holding onto him, and Toby stiffened only for a second before immediately softening, one hand carefully finding your back and the other resting near your shoulder like he was anchoring you in place without overwhelming you, his touch steady and deliberate as he stayed completely still otherwise, letting you cry into his chest while the noise downstairs kept going—distant but constant, like a storm that hadn’t stopped just because you finally found something solid to hold onto—and after a moment he quietly spoke again, voice low and grounding, “Hey… it’s okay. I’ve got you right now,” like he wasn’t trying to fix anything or erase what you were feeling, just making sure you didn’t have to go through it alone while everything else in your world kept falling apart. You clung to him harder, your voice breaking as the words finally spilled out between uneven sobs, “I-I can’t… Toby, god. You don’t know how bad I need you,” and it came out raw, desperate, like you’d been holding it in for so long it hurt to even say it, your fingers gripping his hoodie like letting go would send you straight back into everything happening downstairs; Toby went still for a second, like your words actually hit him somewhere deep, and then his arms tightened just slightly around you—not enough to trap you, just enough to make sure you knew he wasn’t pulling away. The yelling below surged again, louder for a moment, something slamming hard enough to make the floor vibrate under your feet, and you flinched instantly, burying your face deeper into him as your breathing turned shaky again, but he didn’t move away from you or the noise—he just stayed there, grounding you with quiet presence, his voice low and steady near your ear as he said, “Hey… I’m right here. You’re not doing this alone right now,” like it was the only thing that mattered in the middle of all that chaos. Your chest felt tight, like everything inside you was overflowing at once—fear, exhaustion, relief, all tangled together—and you didn’t even realize how hard you were shaking until he shifted slightly to steady you again, careful, patient, like he was giving you space to fall apart without ever letting you fall completely. “I know it feels like too much,” he added after a moment, quieter now, “but you don’t have to carry it by yourself. Not with me here.”

She sobbed into him harder, like everything she’d been holding in for years was finally breaking loose at once, her voice shaking as she clung to his hoodie and let the words spill out without thinking, “You know… we can get out of here. Fuck this place. We could just leave—like in Bones and All… just go somewhere far away where none of this reaches us,” and it wasn’t really a plan, more like grief turning into words, desperation shaping itself into something that sounded like escape, and Toby’s arms stayed around her but he didn’t feed into it the way her panic wanted him to; instead, he held her steady, his hand resting carefully at her back as another crash echoed downstairs and he instinctively shifted his stance like a shield between her and the sound, his voice low and grounded as he said, “Hey… I hear you,” not dismissing her, not arguing, just acknowledging her pain, and she shook even harder, whispering, “I can’t stay here, Toby, I can’t,” and that’s when he gently pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression serious but soft, eyes focused like he was trying to pull her out of the spiral instead of letting her sink deeper into it, “You don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he said quietly, firm but not harsh, “I’m here with you in this moment. That’s all,” and when she tried to speak again through broken breaths, he just shook his head slightly, not shutting her down but slowing her down, like he was trying to stop her thoughts from running too far ahead of her fear, and after a pause he added, quieter, “You’re not alone right now. Just… stay here with me for a bit, okay?” She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking, breaths breaking unevenly as the sound of it filled the quiet space between them, raw and impossible to ignore. He watched her for a moment, something tight and conflicted in his chest, before stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You know… we don’t have to stay here,” he said, softer now, like he was trying not to scare her with the weight of it. “We could leave. Right now. Forget this place—fuck all of it.” He hesitated only a second before continuing, his gaze fixed on her. “We could run. Be lovers on the run… like that book we read, Bones and All. Just you and me. No one else.” She slowly lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes searching his, unsure, fragile. “Us,” he added, more firmly this time, like he needed her to believe it as much as he did. “Till death do us part.” “Lovers…?” she echoed, her voice small, almost lost in the space between them. He let out a quiet breath, stepping even closer, reaching up to gently brush a tear from her cheek. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Lovers.” His expression softened as he looked at her, something almost aching in the way he held her gaze. “Even now… when you’re crying like this, falling apart right in front of me—you’re still beautiful.” She stilled at that, caught off guard. “When we’re reading together, when you’re studying, when you laugh at something stupid—I notice it every time,” he continued, his voice quieter, more certain. “You don’t even try, and you still light everything up. You always look so gorgeous to me. Always.”

She didn’t say anything at first—just nodded, like something inside her had finally settled—then moved quickly, almost urgently, grabbing her backpack and unzipping it with shaking hands. She stuffed everything she could think of inside without overthinking it—clothes, her book, anything that felt like it still belonged to her—zipping it up too fast, fumbling before finally getting it shut. He watched her for only a second before stepping in, helping sling it over her shoulder, his movements steady where hers weren’t. Without another word, he guided her to the window, pushing it open as the cool night air rushed in. “Come on,” he murmured, climbing out first before turning back to her, reaching up. She hesitated only a second before taking his hand, and he lifted her down carefully, his grip firm as he steadied her once her feet hit the ground. Somewhere in the distance, the world felt too quiet—like it was waiting to catch them. “We don’t have time,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. Toby’s white truck sat waiting in the shadows, stolen and idling like a promise they couldn’t take back. He rushed to the passenger side first, yanking the door open for her. “Get in.” She climbed inside, breath still uneven, heart racing, and he shut the door before circling to the driver’s side. A second later, he was behind the wheel, gripping it tight before glancing at her. No turning back now. Then the engine roared louder, and they pulled away into the night.

The truck hummed beneath them as the road stretched out into the dark, headlights cutting a narrow path through the night while everything they were leaving behind faded further into nothing. She sat curled slightly into herself, fingers gripping the edge of her backpack like it was the only thing keeping her grounded, her breathing still uneven as the adrenaline slowly settled into something quieter, heavier. For a long moment, neither of them spoke—just the sound of the engine and the distant rush of wind filling the silence—until she finally turned her head toward him, her voice soft, almost fragile. “...Toby, are we lovers?” The question lingered in the air, delicate and dangerous, like it could change everything depending on how he answered. His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw tensing before he finally spoke. “Yeah,” he said, low and certain, like there was no other answer in the world that made sense. He glanced at her then, just for a second, something steady and unshakable in his expression. “We are.”

The words slipped out of her like she couldn’t hold them in any longer, like they’d been sitting heavy in her chest just waiting for the right moment to break free. Her hands clenched around her backpack as she turned toward him, her voice unsteady but sure. “In that case… I love you.” She paused, her breath catching, but she didn’t look away. “I love you so fucking much.” The confession filled the truck, thick and undeniable, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than the thoughts racing between them. Toby went still for a second, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel as if he needed something to hold onto. He let out a quiet breath, glancing at her, something deeper settling into his expression—something certain. “Yeah,” he said softly, but there was nothing unsure about it. “You’re stuck with me now.” His eyes flicked back to the road, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.