Page 68 of Broken Trails
The rings were the first things I took off when I left Sydney. A symbolic gesture, maybe. Or just a desperate one. Either way, they’re gone—and I still can’t stop touching the spot. A habit.
One that needs to be broken.
I keep my focus on the water bottle in my hand. The condensation. The click of my nail against the cap. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at my hand. My finger. His voice is low when he speaks next. “If I didn’t know any better…” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, “I’d say something used to be there.”
I still. My thumb drops away from the spot like I’ve been caught with a knife pressed to my own pulse. “Not anymore.” Those two words come out dry. Brittle.
Michael’s jaw ticks. That tell-tale little muscle works overtime as he studies me. He leans a hip against the back of the couch, arms still folded loosely across his chest. I can tell he’s trying not to push. But the question’s already on the tip of his tongue.
“Is he the reason you’re here?”
I glance up sharply.
“Did he…” His voice catches, just briefly. His brows pull in the slightest. “Did he do something to… hurt you?”
There’s a strange little flare in his tone. Quiet, sure. But tight. Why does he care? I blink, lips parting like I might ask him that. Demand it, even. But instead, all I do is exhale.
“No,” I lie. Then—because something in the set of his jaw shifts, and because I can’t stand the way that word tastes in my mouth—I correct myself. “Yes. Kind of.” I hesitate. “It’s… complicated.”
That gets a reaction out of him. His expression changes—softening and hardening all at once. Because how do you explain the slow decay of something you thought was built to last? How do you summarise years of being ignored, abused, dismissed, made to feel like you were always too much or not enough? That it wasn’t one explosive event, but a hundred tiny little fractures you didn’t notice until you were already in pieces.
“Zoe.”
Those two syllables roll off his tongue with so much weight I nearly flinch. I snap before he can continue. “You don’t need to say anything I don’t already know. I walked away,” I mutter, more bite in it than I mean. “And that should’ve felt like freedom. But it didn’t. Not right away. I don’t need any more judgement than I’ve already copped.”
His eyes widen with what looks to be a mix of shock and confusion. Hurt, maybe? He takes a step back, as if to give me space, but then steps forward again.
“I’m sorry… but what part of anything I’ve said sounded like judgement?”
My chest tightens.
“Let me rectify that real fucking quick,” he continues. “I am not here to judge you, Zoe.”
My name again. He says it with that gruff, almost reverent edge that makes something throb low in my chest. I hate it. I hate how much it affects me. And yet, I notice it. I cling to it.
Not ‘Freckles.’
Not ‘love.’
And yet… he did call me ‘love.’ Once. Earlier tonight. A term you don’t just throw at someone unless it means something—or you want it to. Unless it slips out because part of you wants it to stick.
“You walked away. That doesn’t make you broken. That makes you someone who saved herself.”
I freeze. Because no one has ever said it like that. And the worst part? It doesn’t feel like I saved myself. It feels like I ran. Well, I guess that’s because I literally did.
Why does it feel like I failed?
Like I stood at the edge of something I promised to weather, and instead of fighting to fix it, I turned my back and walked away. Even if that something was rotting from the inside out. Even if staying meant losing myself completely. Saving yourself is meant to feel brave. Empowering. Liberating. But all I felt, deep down, was small. Fractured. And now his words burn. Not because he’s wrong, but because part of me wants to believe him. And that pisses me off more than anything.
I look at him, jaw tight. “You don’t get to say things like that.”
“What? That I’m not judging you? Because I’m not.”
“No. That I’m not broken.”
His gaze sharpens. “But you’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
