Griffin closes the trunk with a soft thud. It feels final in a way I’m not ready to deal with. The morning air is cool—too cool for August—and the hotel parking lot is quiet except for a distant highway and the wheels of someone hauling luggage across the asphalt.
Everything we have is in the car. We’re leaving.
I knew this day was coming from the moment I got into the Camaro outside the church. I knew this road had an end. Through gas stations, coffee shops, the county fair, and the festival—through every night and every morning—I knew.
You can’t run forever.
I knew that, too.
I stand by the passenger door and look at the town.
Griffin walks toward me with his keys in hand, jaw tight and shoulders tense. He’s trying to keep himself composed, like he always does when something matters too much.
The excitement from the phone call earlier burned off fast. Now there’s only a pit sitting in my stomach. It’s a heavy, sinkingfeeling I’ve been bracing for since the moment we checked into the hotel.
I’m glad I don’t have my phone. I know myself too well. I’d scroll every comment, every share, every tagged repost, and spiral straight into a panic attack. So instead, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and try to pretend I’m okay.
I make a joke because I don’t know what else to do. “Well, at least if I ruin my life, I’ll be famous when I do it.”
It comes out light, but my voice doesn’t match my eyes.
Griffin hears it. He always hears it.
He steps closer and looks at me. “Don’t,” he pleads.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Piper.”
“I’m fine.” I gesture at the car and the road. “End of the trip. Normal stuff.”
“Stop.”
I stop.
“I don’t want you to go back,” Griffin says.
It lands with the weight of absolute truth, hitting the part of my chest that has no armor left.
“Does that make me a selfish bastard?” he asks. “Wanting to keep you here?”
I shake my head hard and scrub a tear from my cheek before it has the chance to fall.
“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t.”
His jaw works as his eyes close for half a second. When he opens them again, there’s something raw there. Something I’ve been ignoring because facing it means the day gets harder.
Two weeks ago, I was on the bathroom floor, pressing my palms against a door in a white veil, trying to remember which version of myself I was supposed to be performing. I spent years becoming someone I didn’t recognize when I looked in the mirror.
I recognize myself now.
That happened here. It wasn’t one single moment; it was the accumulation of small things. It was Griffin handing me coffee before I was ready to talk. It was him showing up outside a church and saying,“Get in, runaway.” He didn’t require anything from me except honesty. Somewhere between the county fair and the festival, I found the thread back to myself, and I followed it.
I found my way home.
He looked at me like I was worth holding onto.
What he did for me?
