Page 252 of Before We Were

Twin suns explode in my vision.

Headlights blazing on the wrong side of the road, bearing down like the eyes of a metallic beast. They say your life flashes before your eyes, but that's not quite right. Time fractures instead, each millisecond crystallizing with perfect clarity:

Blink.

Mom's perfume as she hugs me goodbye.

Blink.

Ollie teaching me to ride a bike, promising not to let go.

Blink.

Nate's smile across a crowded room when his eyes find mine.

Blink.

All the firsts I’ll never have.

Blink.

All the moments that were supposed to be mine.

They don't tell you it's not the big moments you see, it's the small ones—the quiet ones you didn't know were precious until they're about to be gone. It's the future you thought was guaranteed, slipping away like sand through an hourglass suddenly turned on its side.

The impact happens in slow motion.

My world implodes in a symphony of destruction. The hood crumples like paper, the sound of buckling metal so loud it becomes a physical thing, rattling my bones and rupturing the quiet night. The windshield splinters in slow motion—a spiderweb of cracks blooming outward before the whole thing dissolves into a thousand glittering daggers. They catch the streetlight as they hurtle toward me, beautiful and lethal, slicing skin and embedding themselves in my flesh.

The seatbelt locks, crushing into my ribcage with such force I swear I hear bones crack. My teeth clack together, the impact sending shockwaves through my skull as my head whips forward then back. The airbag explodes in my face like a bomb mixing with the taste of my own blood. The Jeep pirouettes, each rotation bringing new waves of agony as my body ragdolls against the constraints.

Blood pools hot and thick in my mouth. Each swallow brings the copper-salt tang of mortality. But underneath it all is the primal scent of fear—sharp and terrifying. It radiates from my pores, mingles with the blood and smoke, marking this moment as the line between before and after.

Consciousness slips away in pieces as voices pierce the fog.

"Oh, my God! Are they dead?" A woman's voice, brittle with terror.

"No. Fuck, it's you."

Male.

Familiar.

That cologne cutting through the wreckage—something expensive, tainted with guilty panic.

"Should we call an ambulance?"

"No. We need to go. Now."

“Do you know her?"

"Get in the car."

"We can't just leave her! She's still breathing."

"I said get in the fucking car now."

Footsteps crunch away on broken glass. I try to scream, to move, but my body has become a prison of twisted metal and shattered bone. The darkness creeps in, soft and seductive.

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