I start typing.
Dates. Locations. The names I remember without looking. The patterns that bothered me long before I understood why.
This is how I cope.
I build structure around chaos.
Halfway through, I realize something chilling:
Aaron thinks he’s protecting me by limiting my choices.
But the enemy already knows how I think.
They anticipated restraint.
They accounted for force.
What they didn’t count on—
Was collaboration.
I close the document and sit back, heart pounding.
Aaron believes survival is about containment.
I believe it’s about exposure.
That difference is going to matter.
A lot.
I glance toward the door, imagining him out there—silent, watchful, lethal in a way that makes the world quieter.
He isn’t trying to control me.
He’s trying to keep the world from breaking me.
That realization shifts something deep in my chest.
Not love.
But trust.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that changes how you fight.
I close the laptop and whisper into the empty room, as if my mother might hear me across whatever distance truth travels.
“I didn’t tidy it up,” I say. “I promise.”
Outside, the city wakes.
And somewhere out there, someone is adjusting their plans around the assumption that I’ll stay contained.
They’re wrong.
Because I’m not running anymore.
