The man beside me didn’t say anything right away.Then quietly: “And you left anyway.”
The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t soft either. They were just… honest.
The truth hit harder than the whiskey. I dragged a hand down my face. “I thought leaving was the kind thing.”
He tipped his glass, watching the ice slide. “You thought leaving would make you clean.”
That landed where it hurt.
“You said I’d hurt him,” I muttered.
His eyes finally lifted to mine. “You already have. But not in the way you think.”
Silence pressed in around us—even though the music blared from hidden speakers. The kind that didn’t wait for answers. Just demanded you accept the thing you were pretending not to see.
I stood abruptly, the stool legs scraping against the rough floor, nearly toppling it to the ground.
“I’m not going to be the reason he disappears,” I said. The words sounded brave. They didn’t feel it. They felt like a bargain with something I didn’t understand yet.
The man didn’t stop me. He didn’t chase me. He didn’t try to fix it for me.
That felt like him handing the choice back to me.
What if leaving was the thing that finished him. What if the absence I told myself was a mercy was the very shape of the wound. The thought hollowed me. I turned and walked out before I could talk myself back into staying. Cold air hit my face like a slap.
I didn’t head back straightaway. That felt important. Like if I went back while I was still shaking, still raw, still trying to justify myself—I’d only make it worse.
So I stayed in the truck and cleaned myself up. Luckily in my line of work, I always kept a change of clothes in a duffel in the truck bed. Sobered up and got my head on straight.
Watched the sky lighten by degrees. Watched the world restart itself without asking permission.
The bar emptied behind me as people returned to their lives. The lot went quiet. Even the roar of the ocean seemed to soften.
Sleep eluded me. I sat there with the engine off and my hands on the steering wheel and the weight of everything I’d almost destroyed pressing into my ribs. My hand wouldn’t stop shaking.Not from the alcohol. From the thought of what my silence might sound like inside him. I pressed it flat against the steering wheel until it settled.
The stranger’s words faded, but the echo of them stayed. Not because they were wrong. But because they weren’t the whole truth.
The whole truth was this: Elliot wasn’t asking me to be his saviour. He was asking me tostay. And I had decided that staying was more dangerous than leaving.
That thought felt unbearable in the growing light of a new day.
By the time the sky bruised into pale pink and gold, I already knew where I was going. I sat there for another full minute, anyway. Afraid that if I moved, I’d make the wrong thing real. Not to undo what I’d done. Not to erase it. Just to be there when the world started again.
I started the engine, like I was choosing something I didn’t yet deserve.
The cliffs were washedin early light when I arrived. Everything looked softer in the morning—less sharp, less cruel. Even the ocean sounded different, its roar dulled into something rhythmic, almost patient.
And he was there. Exactly where I’d expected him to be. Standing near the edge like he belonged to the horizon more than to the earth.
Same clothes. Still damp, the fabric darkened in places where the night had soaked into him.
His hair was tangled from wind and salt, damp dark curls clinging to his forehead and neck. His shoulders were narrow inside the oversized hoodie, like he was trying to disappear inside it. Bare feet in the cold dirt.
He was too small. Too thin. Too breakable.
My chest tightened painfully. “Elliot.”
He turned slowly. Bloodshot eyes locked with mine then looked away just as quickly. His face was blotchy, stained with salt tracks from the tears he’d cried. There was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone where he must’ve hit the sand when he fell… It nearly undid me.
