Fear

46

The days that followed blurred together. Morning, night — didn't matter. I stayed in bed.

Tyler drifted in and out of the room and around the house, always quiet, always careful, like a man living with a ghost. Maybe he was. Maybe we both were.

When I finally left the bedroom four days later, the air felt a little lighter, but my resolve hadn't wavered. Everything I said was true. I was a fool to think I loved him like that and I told myself I couldn't let it happen again. But part of me knew that was a lie. That I would go back to him, because who else did I have?

My knee ached with each step as I made my way onto the balcony and down the stairs. The banister was cool under my fingers.

Downstairs smelled faintly of coffee and air freshener. The sofa looked the same — grey, sun-faded. I sat and stared at the empty fireplace.

For a long time, I didn't think of anything. Then, without asking, my mind rewound.

Dylan's face. The glint of the knife. The balcony. The fall.

My knee throbbed again, phantom heat pulsing under the bandage. The sound of his laugh — or maybe I just imagined it — echoed faintly in the room. I pressed a hand to my leg, grounding myself. The pain was real. The memory was real. And I was still here.

And then the room flickered to life. A burst of static, the hum of electricity, a screen glowing to my right.

Tyler had turned on the TV and came to sit next to me.

The sound was almost alien — too bright, too alive. The music, the chatter, the cadence of normal life. I hadn't heard it in what felt like years. It hit like sunlight in the eyes after weeks underground. Too much, too fast. My eyes burned, and before I could stop them, tears came.

I don't know what I was crying for. Maybe for the girl who used to fall asleep to late-night reality shows. The girl who watched Friends with her mum. Or maybe for the world that still spun without me.

Then the channel changed. The screen shifted from sitcom laughter to the sterile brightness of the news.

It was American news.

I didn't notice right away, but there were headlines. A hurricane coming. A murderer. A celebrity's court case. Something about Trump.

And then weather.
Washington state.
Close to the Canadian border.

Tyler changed the channel just as the woman started talking. But I saw it.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the hum of the TV's new program — a commercial, some hollow music pretending everything was fine.

I didn't speak. Not that I could have.

Because that was the moment I understood.
How far away I really was.
How many miles separated me from home.
Manchester.

The distance pressed against my ribs like a vice. My hands trembled. I didn't know if it was from fear or cold or both.

Then I felt him beside me.
The warmth of him.
His hand brushing against my shoulder, tentative at first, then firmer.
He pulled me in.

His arm draped across me, heavy, anchoring. His body heat seeped into my skin. I could feel his chest move with every breath, slow and deliberate, like he thought if he just breathed for the both of us, I wouldn't fall apart.

For a second, I almost let myself lean into it. Almost.

But the tension came first — the instinct, the panic. I tried to push him off. My hands pressed weakly against his arm. He didn't let go. His grip tightened, not cruel, not controlling. Just desperate.