Lena hasn’t stopped crying since the sun went down.
At first it was loud, frantic—sharp breaths that scraped her throat raw. Now it’s quieter, more frightening. Little hiccupping sounds she doesn’t seem aware of making. Her face is swollen, eyes fixed somewhere behind me, like she’s watching a memory I can’t see.
I’ve tried everything.
Talking. Waiting. Giving her space. Sitting close without touching her. None of it works. She keeps shaking her head, hair sticking to her wet cheeks, whispering the same thing over and over.
“Come back. Please come back.”
I don’t know who she thinks she’s talking to.
I’m right here.
If things were normal, I would’ve held her by now. Pulled her against me, let her cry into my shoulder the way she used to. I would’ve told her she was safe, that everything would be fine.
But normal ended the night of the crash.
She doesn’t remember it the way it happened.
That’s understandable. Trauma rearranges things. It takes moments and swaps them around until they make sense enough to survive. I’ve read about that.
What she remembers is chaos. Headlights. Screaming. Glass.
What she doesn’t remember is the choice.
Ethan was never good for her. Everyone could see that except Lena. He talked over her, dismissed her, made her feel small without ever raising his voice. The worst kind of cruelty—the kind you can’t point to.
I loved her too much to let that continue.
When I told him to leave her alone, he laughed. When I warned him, he smiled. Like I was a joke.
The road was slick that night. Accidents happen all the time.
Lena suddenly curls inward, arms wrapping around herself as another wave of sobs hits. Her breathing goes ragged, shallow. She looks like she might pass out.
I can’t let that happen.
“Hey,” I say softly, kneeling in front of her. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wide with something close to terror.
“No,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
That hurts more than it should.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Of course I’m here.”
She presses her back into the wall, like she’s trying to disappear into it. “You—he—” Her words trip over each other. “You didn’t make it. I saw the car. I saw—”
Her voice breaks.
Ah.
So that’s how her mind fixed it.
She thinks I’m dead.
That Ethan survived.
That she lost the wrong person.
It almost makes sense. I was the one in the passenger seat. I was the one closest to the impact. Her brain chose the version that hurt least.
I don’t blame her.
“Lena,” I say gently. “You’re confused.”
She clamps her hands over her ears, rocking harder. “Stop. Stop talking. This isn’t real. You’re not real.”
I take a breath, steadying myself. This isn’t the time to get upset. She needs patience. Understanding.
“I didn’t leave,” I say. “I stayed. I always stay.”
She looks at me then—really looks—and something in her expression shatters.
“You did this,” she says hoarsely. “You hurt him.”
The way she says him makes my chest tighten.
“I protected you,” I say. “He was never going to change.”
She screams.
It happens fast after that.
She tries to run. I catch her wrist. She twists, slipping from my grip, panic giving her strength. I grab her again, tighter this time, pulling her back toward me.
“Stop,” I say. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She fights like she doesn’t know me at all. Nails scraping skin. Elbows flailing. Her heel catches my shin and I stumble, dragging her down with me.
She lands wrong.
I hear the sound before I understand it.
A dull, awful crack.
She goes still.
For a moment, I think she’s fainted.
That would be easier.
I call her name. Shake her gently. Her head lolls to the side, eyes unfocused. There’s a dark bloom spreading beneath her hairline.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
I just wanted her to listen. To calm down. To understand that everything I did was for us. Killing Ethan should have been enough to prove that.
But she never sees things clearly in the moment.
She needs help seeing.
She wakes briefly.
Just long enough to look at me with something like recognition. Or maybe fear. It’s hard to tell.
“Please,” she murmurs. “Let me go.”
I can’t.
If I let her go now, she’ll leave. She’ll call the police. She’ll tell them lies because she doesn’t remember the truth properly.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her the way I should have earlier. Firm. Close. Secure.
Her breathing stutters.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She struggles weakly at first, then less and less. Her body relaxes against mine, heavy and warm.
Finally, she’s still.
The apartment is silent.
Too silent.
I lay her down carefully on the couch, arranging her limbs so she looks comfortable. Like she’s sleeping. I wipe her face with a damp cloth, smoothing her hair back.
She looks peaceful now.
Better than she did while crying.
I sit beside her, holding her hand, waiting for her to wake up.
She doesn’t.
Hours pass.
I don’t know how many.
At some point, I realize something strange.
She isn’t breathing.
That’s when it hits me.
Not panic.
Understanding.
She did come back.
She just couldn’t stay.
I lie down beside her, curling my body around hers, fitting myself into the space she’s left behind. It feels right. Like this is how it was always meant to be.
“I’m here,” I whisper into the quiet room. “You don’t have to call for me anymore.”
Outside, somewhere far away, sirens begin to wail.
They’ll misunderstand.
They always do.
But that’s okay.
She and I are finally close enough that nothing can pull us apart again.
And this time, she isn’t crying.
