With Our Time Left

Chapter 9

Mila's POV

I stumbled alongside Samuel and Dad, my feet dragging from exhaustion. The city loomed ahead, its silhouette a dark and jagged line against the setting sun. My body ached, and my mind was weighed down by the endless hours of walking, the fear, and the uncertainty.

Dad's voice was a steady presence, guiding us forward. "We need to find somewhere safe for the night," he said, his tone clipped but calm. "We'll be close to the city soon."

I glanced up at him, the sight of his determined face a bittersweet comfort. He was trying so hard, and Samuel was being so brave, but I felt like I was a burden, like all this effort was for someone who wasn't worth saving.

My mind drifted back to those long, painful years after the divorce, to the things that no one ever really talked about, the things that lingered in whispered conversations and pointed glances.

I remembered the way the adults would talk behind closed doors, their voices hushed but filled with judgment. "Poor Mila," they'd say. "She's the one who suffers the most. Caught in the middle of this mess." I was a kid, but I wasn't blind. I saw the pitying looks, the half-hearted smiles. I was constantly being told to choose—choose Dad or choose Mom, as if it was that simple, as if the world could be divided neatly into black and white.

It was never just about choosing between two parents. It was about enduring a childhood where I felt like a pawn in their broken game. No matter how much they tried to shield me, I was always in the middle, always witnessing the fallout of their decisions.

And then there was Sara. For a time, she was the one person who I thought understood me. We were both trying to navigate a world that seemed to crumble around us, and I clung to the hope that she was someone I could rely on. But as the years passed, something changed.

I recalled the way Sara had started to distance herself from me, how she became more secretive. I noticed the way she would snap at me when I tried to ask about what was going on. She'd been living with Mom and her new boyfriend, and I had a sinking feeling that something was wrong. Sara's behavior had become erratic—sometimes she would be fine, but other times, she'd be angry and closed off.

One night, I tried to talk to her. "Sara, what's going on with you? Is everything alright with Mom's boyfriend?" I had asked cautiously. But Sara had snapped back at me, her face hard and her eyes cold. "It's none of your business, Mila. Just stay out of it."

I felt helpless and confused, unable to understand why she wouldn't confide in me. I was her sister, and I thought we had a mutual understanding, a bond forged by shared experiences. But instead of finding comfort in each other, we grew further apart. Her silence only added to the weight I already carried, and her rejection made me feel even more alone.

When Sara left us behind, it felt like the final, devastating blow. I had always believed she would be my ally, the one person who understood my pain because she shared it. Her departure felt like a betrayal, a blow that cut deeper than I wanted to admit. All those years, she was supposed to be my support, and instead, she was gone, leaving me to deal with the mess alone.

As we approached the edge of the city, I tried to push those memories aside, focusing on the present. The threat of the undead was ever-present, their moans growing louder with each step. But I couldn't help but think of how much had changed, how much we had all been through.

Dad spotted a partially intact building that looked relatively safe. "Let's check this place out," he said, his voice steady. "We can rest here for the night."

We entered cautiously, scanning the interior for any signs of danger. The building had been abandoned for some time, dust covering every surface, but it seemed sturdy enough. Dad began to make a small fire using some of the supplies we had gathered.

I slumped against a wall, my fatigue overwhelming. Samuel sat beside me, his eyes tired but alert. He reached out and took my hand, squeezing it gently. "We're going to find them, Mila," he said softly, his voice filled with quiet determination.

I nodded, though my heart was heavy. "I know," I whispered, trying to hold back tears. "I just... I hope we do."

Dad sat down near the fire, his face illuminated by its flickering light. He looked at us, his expression a mix of concern and resolve. "We'll find Sara and your mom," he said firmly. "We won't stop until we do."

The warmth of the fire was a small comfort, a brief respite from the cold and the fear. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the memories that haunted me, focusing instead on the hope of finding Sara and Lori.

As I drifted into a restless sleep, I clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find some peace amid the chaos. And maybe, finally, we could find a way to heal the wounds that had festered for so long.