𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ─────⋆⋅★𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝟓𝟖. 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝

The trailer sat at the end of a gravel path, its tin siding rusting at the edges, weather-beaten and slumped like it had been forgotten by the world. The yard was overgrown, strewn with beer cans and scraps of old furniture, relics of a life left to rot under the weight of time. Suki sat stiff in the passenger seat, her hand clutching Drew's so tightly it was almost painful. But he didn't let go. He wouldn't.

As the car rolled to a stop, Drew's chest tightened. He couldn't reconcile the reality of this place with the luminous, unstoppable woman he knew. The trailer wasn't just a house—it was a testament to everything she had survived. The starkness of it was almost unbearable.

Suki got out of the car slowly, as if the air around her was heavier here. She stood for a moment, staring at the door, her face unreadable. Drew came around to her side, his hand finding the small of her back. "You okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded but didn't speak. Her hand fumbled for the keys she'd insisted on retrieving from the coroner's office. When the lock clicked open, the door swung inward with a creak that sounded like a ghost exhaling.

The smell hit them first—stale beer, mildew, and something faintly acrid, like years of bad choices compressed into a scent that clung to the walls. Drew had to swallow back a wave of nausea, not from the odor itself but from the heaviness it carried, an invisible weight pressing down on the space. The living room was a battlefield of mismatched furniture, the couch slumped and defeated against the wall, its cigarette burns like scars mapping the life that had unfolded there. Empty bottles, dusty and forgotten, crowded every surface, their glass bodies glinting dully in the thin light filtering through yellowed curtains.

Suki stood at the threshold, frozen, her breath hitching as her eyes swept the room. She didn't cry. She didn't speak at first. She just stared, her shoulders stiff, as if steeling herself against the memories clawing their way back. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice barely a whisper. "She didn't care much for cleaning."

Drew didn't say anything. He just stayed close, his hand brushing against hers like an anchor, ready to steady her if she faltered. The house was heavy with silence, the kind that held ghosts in every corner. He could feel her hesitation, the way her body seemed caught between wanting to turn back and needing to move forward.

They made their way down the narrow hallway, the peeling wallpaper sagging like tired skin. Every step creaked, the old floorboards groaning under their weight, as if the house itself was reluctant to let them in. Pictures hung crooked on the walls, images of a family that looked hollow-eyed and worn. Drew glanced at them as they passed, his chest tightening with each step. He couldn't reconcile the woman beside him—strong, resilient, and breathtaking—with this decaying place that had once been her world.

When they reached the door to her old bedroom, Suki stopped. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, her breath catching like the air had been knocked out of her. She looked small in that moment, smaller than he'd ever seen her, as if the weight of this place was folding her in on herself.

"You don't have to go in," Drew said, his voice steady but gentle, his eyes searching hers.

"I do," she replied, her words soft but firm, like she was convincing herself as much as him. She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room hit her like a punch to the chest. It was frozen in time, a snapshot of her teenage years left untouched, like a museum exhibit for a girl who had barely survived. Clothes were scattered across the floor in haphazard piles, some crumpled, some still draped over the bedframe like they were waiting for her to come back. The bed was unmade, the sheets wrinkled and yellowed with age. A small desk in the corner was stacked with notebooks, their edges frayed and torn, like they'd been thumbed through a thousand times. On the dresser sat a broken hairbrush, its handle dented, the bristles bent and worn.