Night grows late. The apartment’s windows are dark outside. The hum of the city, the buzz of life. We sit there side by side on the couch. The holostation glows behind. Our breaths sync, soft and broken.
I turn to her, “I didn’t come back to haunt you.”
Her eyes glimmer. “Good,” she says.
Then I continue, voice quake, “I came back because I wasn’t finished.” The words tremble through me.
She nods. Quiet. The secret in her heart pulses like a wound—new and old. I don’t press it tonight.
From across the couch she looks at me. Her face is lit by a dim lamp, the station glows. I see ache, love, fear, hope. The space between us is still large, but narrower.
We linger there, unspoken, electricity humming in the air. Rain still taps the window, neon bleeding outside. Between now and then, that fragile thread begins to bear weight again.
We just exist—two souls breathing after a long war, standing on the threshold of what might come next.
CHAPTER 30
AMY
Iglance at my pad. Lines blur.“Darun, I have to tell you something...”I rewrite the same sentence again and again, but the words refuse to mean what I need them to mean. They sting like salt. Guilt is a weight in my ribs.
Outside the apartment windows, the neon glitters off wet streets. The city hums. Rain taps lightly on the panes. The holo-screens on distant buildings bleed headlines:“Matthews Exposé — Public in Uproar”,“Anchor Under Fire”. I feel the vibration of outrage in the walls around me. The backlash is growing.
I start typing a new segment in my head: truth about Kanapa. Then the truth about Darun. About what’s in my heart. About the life I built in his absence. But the words catch in my throat.
I hear my holo-comm ping. Rex. I press “Accept,” voice tight.
“Amy,” he says, urgency breaking through the static, “you’ve got protesters outside. I just got a video—crowds, signs, chanting your name but calling for cancellations. Hate mail—threats—every margin of the net is bleeding now.”
My scalp prickles. My stomach flips. “They can’t silence me,” I whisper, more to myself than him.
“They might try. The board’s shaken. Legal’s demanding a retraction clause. They want you to go dark for a week. Cool off. Let this die.” Rex’s voice cracks. “I swear, I’m going to fight it—but be careful.”
I cut him off. “I’m not backing down. You tell them—no. We go full. Everything. Not half truths. All of it.”
His silence holds weight. “I’ll back you.” Then more softly: “Just… be smart.”
I end the call. My hand shakes. The pad slides from my fingers. I catch it. I stare at the floor. The rain keeps its rhythm on the glass. I swallow.
In the hush, the door clicks. Darun enters. He carries a bag—takeout. The scent of warm spices and grilled meat spills into the apartment and lands on my face. The air smells like garlic and char and hope.
He steps closer. The overhead light flickers, casting shadows across his face—strong cheekbones, tired eyes. The jacket is damp. He unwraps the bag.
“This felt like home,” he says, voice low. He sets the containers on the table. Steam rises. I hear rice settle, chopsticks tapping the plastic lid.
I can’t meet his eyes. Everything is weight. The words on my pad. The secret lurking between us. My chest compresses.
“Me too,” I lie. I swallow. The lie tastes bitter.
He glances at me.
“I was thinking—maybe tomorrow we go out. Walk the city. Feel real things again. Smell street food. Hear music.”
I nod, voice small. “Yeah. I’d like that.” But part of me wants to run away. Part of me wants to confess. And part of me wants to hide.
He opens a container. Steam curls around his face. The smell of cumin, garlic, charred vegetables. He holds up a piece of grilled meat to me. “You want?” His eyes hopeful.
I manage a smile. “Always.” I take it. The warmth on my tongue anchors me.
