Reza
The silence is the worst part.
Not the shouting, there wasn’t any.
Not the fear because that burned itself out hours ago, leaving my body sore and buzzing, like I ran too hard and stopped too suddenly.
It’s the quiet that follows when something has broken cleanly and no one has reached for the pieces yet.
I sit on the edge of the bed, sneakers still on, jacket folded too neatly beside me. The room smells like soap and fabric and safety, and it feels undeserved. Outside, the packhouse breathes on without me, doors closing, footsteps passing, the low sound of voices drifting through stone and wood.
Life continuing.
As if I didn’t just fracture something important.
Aaron hasn’t spoken to me since the drive back.
Not really.
Later, he said.
Not yet.
The words circle endlessly,
