“Yes.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”
“I try to be.”
I shake my head, leaning back into the seat. “This should bother me more.”
“It does bother you.”
“Not enough,” I mutter.
Silence settles between us, but it’s not empty. It’s full of everything I’m trying to sort through and can’t.
Because none of it makes sense.
Every time something felt off. Every time I convinced myself I'd imagined it.
It was her.
Watching.
Waiting.
My jaw tightens.
“You knew when I was struggling,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me. Just keeps her eyes on the road. “Yes.”
“You showed up every time.”
“Yes.”
“And you never—” I stop, trying to find the right word. The right accusation. It doesn’t come. “…You never hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t,” she says quietly.
I believe her.
That’s the problem.
That’s the part that doesn’t make sense.
I should be scared.
I should be telling her to pull over.
I should be calling someone for help.
Doing something.
Anything at all.
I climbed out a bathroom window to get away from her.
And somehow... Sitting beside her feels safer than standing alone on that sidewalk.
I don’t know what the hell that says about me.
