"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
"In the blur of serenity, where did everything get lost?" ~Ian
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"Do you want to kill a girl?"
Rory's voice pitched so high, it trembled over the roar of the engine.
I didn't answer.
My fingers clamped the wheel, knuckles as white as the headlights streaking past. I was speeding. I knew I was speeding. But I couldn't stop. Don't think I wanted to.
"Calm the fuck down Ian,"
Her hands clawed at the door handle, a futile gesture, as if bracing herself against the velocity.
I didn't answer.
My hands clung to the wheel like they were the only thing keeping me grounded. The engine roared as the car pushed faster, slicing through the night.
"None of us will get to him if we both die— Calm— down," she tried again.
But I couldn't.
My fingers still locked on the wheel, my knuckles became got more paler, eyes glued to the road. The car surged forward, continuously slicing through the night. The speedometer ticked up.
My heart even ticked faster.
"Calm down a bit," she said. I didn't.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What the hell is happening.
There's a peculiar kind of torment in not knowing. It's not loud—no, it doesn't scream. It seeps, quiet as mist, curling around your thoughts until you can't tell where reason ends and fear begins.
The unknown is a thief.
It steals clarity, time, and breath. It fills the spaces in your mind with jagged, shadowed possibilities—each one darker than the last. You clutch at fragments of what you do know, but they're slippery, crumbling in your hands like sand.
And in that void, time slows. A single second becomes an eternity, stretching endlessly, mocking you with its silence. Your chest hollows out, as though the absence of answers has carved a space inside you, wide and aching.
I think the cruelest part of not knowing is the way it demands everything of you—your patience, your strength, your sanity—and offers nothing in return. It leaves you suspended in a breathless limbo, powerless and raw, the weight of possibility pressing heavy on your shoulders.
A few minutes ago, I was certain nothing unusual would happen. Everything had been calm, almost ordinary, aside from the sharp glances Rory kept throwing my way—silent attempts to needle me with guilt since we'd left the villa.
