𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

έντεκα ; 11

song of the chapter:
LET THE LIGHT IN ; lana del rey , father john misty

The night air had grown colder, the warmth of the day long gone. The waves crashed softly in the distance, their gentle rhythm a stark contrast to the storm swirling inside Margarita. She still sat on the balcony, knees tucked into her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her body trembling slightly from the chill—or maybe it was from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. Tears still slipped down her face, silent and unnoticed now, as if they had become a part of her.

Rafe sat beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body against the cool air, but not so close that he crowded her. His hand rested on his knee, the cart he had taken from her earlier now lying between them, untouched. His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, softened as he watched her.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that settled when there was too much to say but no words to fit the weight of it all.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Rafe shifted slightly, his voice low and hesitant. "Margarita... why didn't you tell me?"

She turned her head slowly to look at him, her bloodshot eyes blinking slowly, as if it took her a moment to register his words. Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. She swallowed, her throat dry and raw. "Tell you what?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from the crying, from the weight of everything she had been holding back.

"About... all of this." He gestured vaguely, indicating the cart, the tears, the unspoken things that hung between them. "About how bad it's gotten."

She looked away again, her gaze returning to the waves, which were now barely visible against the dark horizon. "I didn't think you'd care," she said, her voice barely audible, as if the words were more to herself than to him.

Rafe frowned, his brow furrowing. "Why wouldn't I care? We've... been through stuff. I care more than you think."

Margarita let out a soft, bitter laugh, though it was void of any real humor. "Everyone has their own problems, Rafe. I didn't want to add to yours. Besides... you've seen me at my worst before. What difference would it make now?"

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his expression. "That's not fair, Rita. I mean, look at me. I'm a mess half the time. I don't exactly have it together either, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you. I just... I don't know how to help you if you don't let me in."

Margarita shook her head slowly, still staring out at the ocean. "I'm not asking for help, Rafe. I'm just... trying to get through it."

"But this?" Rafe picked up the cart and held it in front of her, his expression a mix of concern and anger. "This isn't getting through it. This is running away. This is hiding."

She didn't answer, didn't even flinch at his words. It was true, of course. She had been running, hiding, numbing herself to everything that hurt, everything that felt too heavy to carry. But how could she explain that to him? How could she put into words the weight she felt every day, the pressure to be something more, something better? The constant feeling of being lost, of not knowing where she belonged?

"I'm not like you, Rafe," she said after a long silence. "I don't have the strength to fight all the time. Sometimes I just... need to disappear for a while."

Rafe's jaw clenched. "That's not strength, Margarita. What I do—what we do—it's just another way of running. Whether it's coke or weed or whatever, it's all the same. We're both trying to escape. Don't make me out to be stronger than I am."