Silence.
I laugh. Bitter. Broken.
“No one’s coming out of this whole, Cassandra. Not you. Not me. No one.”
I turn, walking toward the sink like I can rinse the blood off my fucking memories. I grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles go white.
“You think I’m angry at you?” My voice drops to a rasp. “I’m not.”
Another breath. Shaky. Controlled.
“I’m angry at me. For letting you in. For letting myself believe for one second that I could have something soft in a world that only deals in sharp edges and exit wounds.”
Her footsteps are quiet.
She’s behind me but I can’t turn around because if I see her face—if I see even an ounce of forgiveness—I’ll break.
“I watched a man shoot his best friend because he was infected and there were no medics left. That’s what you’re walking into. That’s what I walked out of.”
Another silence.
And then I snap.
I spin around and slam my fist into the cupboard door. It splinters.
“Fuck!”
She gasps—but doesn’t move.
Just stares at me like she wants to hold me together and I don’t deserve it.
“I can’t lose you too,” I snarl. “I won’t.”
I’m heaving now. Rage boiling under my skin like napalm. My voice shakes from the sheer pressure of trying to hold it all in.
“Twenty Six days,” I breathe. “Twenty Six days and I have to go back to hell. And now I get to count down every single one knowing you’re running toward the fucking fire.”
She opens her mouth.
I stop her with one word:
“Don’t.”
I’m shaking.
Unraveling.
I’ve never felt this much and wanted it gone so bad because if I love her—I lose her.
That’s what war is.
It takes everything soft and makes it bleed.
“I’m not scared of war,” she says softly.
I flinch.
Not because of the words because of the conviction in them.
