Ride or die. Love with no brakes.
But just like everything in life, happiness isn’t ours to keep.
The sound reaches me first. Sirens are coming from far away, then getting louder as we move faster. I turn my head around and see seven bikes behind me, their headlights piercing the dark. The deep, gravelly sound of a Harley rolls over the road, and I immediately recognize it. It’s the President.
I surge forward toward her, snapping my hand out to warn her. They’re behind us. Her bike wobbles as she looks back.
My heart pounds so hard it blurs my vision. I lift my head and see the police cars ahead, lights flashing towards us.
She looks at me, flips her visor up, and points to the curve on the right.
We drop into it, tilting our bikes. More police cars come from the right side. When we try to turn back, the Fallen Saints are already there, blocking us in.
“We ride until we die,” she screams, and she guns it straight toward the cops.
“No,” rips out of me as I chase her, pushing harder, reaching for her back, for anything.
She doesn’t slow. She doesn’t even look back.
Red and blue lights strobe across the road, and sirens are closing in.
Her bike starts to wobble. The front tire catches a slick patch, just for a second, and that’s enough.
She goes down.
The bike slams onto its side and skids, metal screaming against the road. Her body falls down, her shoulder first, then her hip, then she slides, spinning once before she goes still.
“No,” I gasp.
I wrestle my bike to a stop as police cars box me in. I jump off and run to her.
I can see trails of blood around her. Her helmet is cracked. She isn’t moving.
Shouts explode behind me. Guns rattle like I’m the most dangerous criminal on this street. My only crime is loving her.
Hands grab my arms and wrench me back. I fight, I twist, but they throw me to the ground and rip the helmet off my head.
If she dies, I die with her. There is nothing in me worth saving.
“D-d-don’t l-leave m-me,” breaks out of my throat.
My heart slams against my chest.
Ride or die. But my ride is dying.
Nothing matters anymore. I’m losing her.
Something in me screams. The worst part is, I know this feeling. I saw it in her eyes when she lost me. I lived it through her. Except I get to keep breathing, keep moving, keep existing, while I don’t even know if she still does.
Losing someone hurts most when you are the only one who feels it. When they are still right in front of you, but already gone. The world keeps walking past, keeps talking, keeps pretending nothing is breaking apart.
The cops don’t see her. They only see me. They see headlines. They see the moment they finally put a name to my face, as if they won something. While they drag me away from her, herchest could stop rising at any second. They don’t even look at the President and his men as they close in and take her away, like they’re saving her.
I know what waits for her if she survives. And it is worse than dying.
I think that is the worst part.
No. I am wrong.
