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As we reached back to our campsite, the atmosphere in our tent felt heavy. Kaylo sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone, a palpable tension surrounding him. I clutched the bedsheet to my chest, a sudden urge to check on him overwhelming me.
"Hey, what's going on?" I asked, my voice reflecting concern.
He turned to me, setting his phone down, and sitting up straight. "My dad texted me," he replied,
Examining his expression more closely, I pressed further, "Is everything alright?"
Kaylo's eyes held a questioning uncertainty as he pondered how to respond. Slowly, his gaze grazed mine, and he quietly admitted, "Not really."
In response, I quietly extended my hand to him. He glanced at the empty space beside me and with a quiet resolve, he moved towards me and rested his head on my arm.
I pulled the blanket to cover both of us and softly asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Kaylo looked up at the tent, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
"My dad and uncle are at each other's throats," he mumbled.
Silence enveloped us, with only the sounds of cicadas and crickets from outside our tent.
I gazed at his beautiful profile as he continued, "He wanted to take over my father's mafia empire and finish him for good."
In a hushed tone, I asked, "Are you worried for your dad?"
His gaze shifted from me to the tent surface again. His brows furrowed, contemplating the depth of my question.
A scowl formed on his face as he muttered, "Seve, the place where I was born, death follows us every day," His eyes reflected the shadows of his tumultuous past as he continued with a solemn tone, "I was raised not to care for anyone's life, not even my own. It's a world where survival often demands detachment, where emotions can be a liability."
His words painted a picture of the somber reality of his upbringing, a picture of a life shaped by the harsh dictates of the mafia.
"But I don't want to lose you," I confessed,
He met my gaze, his eyes lingering over every feature of my face. Slowly, he turned his head away, his expression conflicted.
"I think I have to move out of the country for a while," he murmured,
And with that a subtle sadness crept into the air.
I glanced at him and my eyes revealed a doleful expression. "How many days?" I asked.
He slowly turned to me, his gaze meeting mine. "I don't know. It could take some days, some weeks, months, or even years," he replied,
I didn't respond immediately; I remained silent, absorbing his words like bitter pills,
