Chapter 30
Jul 18, 2025
The question hit like a brick through glass. I sat there gripping the door handle like it might teleport me somewhere less complicated, chest doing that annoying thing where it forgets how breathing works.
Honestly? I had no fucking clue if we were okay. Okay felt like a luxury for people who hadn’t just survived a social nuclear apocalypse together.
I turned to look at him. Streetlight carved his face into half-shadow, making him look almost innocent when he absolutely wasn’t. But his expression? Pure terror wrapped in careful hope. A boy sitting in the wreckage, begging the universe not to take the one good thing he’d accidentally found.
“I don’t have a perfect answer,” I whispered.
“Not asking for perfect.”
“You should. You deserve that.”
“So do you.”
The words landed wrong—not because they were lies, but because they felt too generous. I’d spent so long being whatever people needed that I’d forgotten what I actually wanted. Revolutionary concept, apparently.
“What if the damage is too much?” I asked.
“Then we learn to live with the cracks.”
Jesus. Who taught him to say things like that?
“I’m scared, Chase.”
“So am I.” No shame. No attempt to fix it. Just honesty in the dark.
For once, that was enough.
“Maybe,” I said finally.
The word hung between us like a promise neither of us was ready to make. Not yes. Not no. Just maybe—loaded with all the almost-love and definite-chaos we’d been dancing around for weeks.
His eyes closed like that one word was permission to breathe again.
I got out of the car, walked up the driveway without looking back. Could feel him watching until I disappeared inside.
The house was tomb-quiet. Mom’s door shut, lights dimmed, my room exactly as I’d left it but somehow completely different. Like something essential had been left behind in Chase’s passenger seat.
I collapsed onto my bed and grabbed the journal I’d been ignoring for days. No revenge lists this time. No rebellion checkboxes. Just… rebuilding.
Take longer showers without guilt.
Breathe when it hurts. And when it doesn’t.
Don’t shrink. Not for love. Not for safety. Not for anyone.
My hand shook, but I kept going.
Start choosing things because you want them—not because someone dared you to.
Let someone love you. Even if it scares you.
Trust that maybe, one day, it won’t.
I stared at the words. Each line felt like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep, but they were mine. Not performed for an audience. Not written to prove anything.
Just… honest.
My pen hovered over the paper. I could still hear his voice—Are we okay?—and see the weight in his eyes when I said “maybe”.
Maybe to being loved. For real this time.
