Page 90 of Before We Were

"And sometimes," she adds, still continuing on with her thoughts. “You have to trust that the universe will surprise you, usually when you least expect it. That's where the magic happens." Her smile fades slightly, touched with melancholy. "That's what dad always said."

The mention of David tightens my throat, guilt a familiar weight. But before I can spiral, she speaks again.

"That's what you have to do. Don't lose faith in magic."

I can't respond.

Anything I say would shatter this moment, this delicate balance we've found. She's too much, too bright, too real. Looking at her is like staring into the sun—beautiful and dangerous and impossible to resist. It's not just her physical beauty, though that's undeniable. There's something wild and innocent about her—a storm always brewing behind those eyes, threatening to ignite everything in its path. She's lighting me up from the inside, and I know I'll let her burn me alive if she asks.

I'm in deep, drowning in her, and the scariest part is I don't want to surface. I'd let her destroy me completely if it meant taking away the shadows I sometimes see in her eyes.

"I hope you're right," I whisper, turning back to the road, shifting gears more to have something to do with my hands than any real need. Her hand covers mine on the gearshift, and the warmth of her skin sends shockwaves through my entire body.

I look at her hand on mine, then back at her face. She smiles, adding a playful wink that does dangerous things to my heart.

"Always am."

"How do you do it?" The question escapes before I can stop it, raw with honesty.

She tilts her head, confusion furrowing her brows. In the shifting shadows of passing streetlights, her face is a study in contrasts—soft and sharp, familiar and mysterious.

"Do what?"

"Be so sure of yourself all the time?"

Her laugh is soft, musical, and far too intoxicating for my sanity. "I'm not sure of anything. Did you not see what happened earlier?"

"Bullshit." I shake my head, feeling the weight of what I'm about to admit. "You walk around like you know exactly who you are. Meanwhile, I'm here feeling like I'm trying out a hundred different versions of myself, getting further from the truth every time."

Her expression softens as she considers this, and something in her eyes makes my chest tight.

"Well, maybe that's the problem. You're too busy trying to find who you are instead of remembering who you've always been."

Her words cut through the fog in my head, simple and sharp as a blade. The way she says it, like it's the most obvious truth in the world, gets under my skin in ways both exhilarating and terrifying. She's always had this ability to see right through my defenses, to read the parts of me I keep locked away. Sometimes I think she was made to know me better than anyone else, better than I know myself.

The rest of the drive wraps us in silence, but it's heavy with unspoken words and ghosts of conversations we're both too afraid to start.

When I park the car, the clock is nearing 2 AM and my body is exhausted but my mind races with dangerous possibilities. Each tick of the clock reminds me that this fragile peace we've found could shatter at any moment. Being near her is like standing at the edge of a cliff—the fall inevitable—but I can't seem to step back.

"Can I ask you something now?" Her voice breaks through my thoughts, light but hesitant in the darkness.

"Sure." My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

Her gaze dances away, a tell I've known since we were kids. "Have you been... you know..."

"Using again?" I cut in, my voice sharper than intended, defensive.

Color blooms across her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with genuine concern.

"I haven't since the night at the beach." The memory of her terror-stricken eyes that night still haunts me. Seeing her look at me like I was turning into my father… it was the wake-up call I needed.

Never again.

Relief floods her features, mixed with something that looks dangerously like joy. "Oh..."

"Yeah." The word hangs between us, weighted with everything we're not saying.

"Thank you," she whispers. The melody of her voice resonates through my chest, striking chords I thought I'd buried years ago.

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