Page 59 of Broken By Silence
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“My car’s totaled,” I remind her. “Crashed it when I was bleeding out trying to get to you. Haven’t replaced it yet. I just… I need you to take me somewhere.”
Her fingers dig into her sweater sleeves, knuckles white. Her voice is quiet, trembling, but sure. “That idea terrifies me.”
The words land harder than any bullet.
“Why?” I ask, even though I already know.
She doesn’t look away. “Because you still remind me of him.”
Her words slice me open.
Because you still remind me of him.
I sit there, swallowing the sting, and force myselfnot to flinch. I’ve taken bullets. I’ve taken beatings so bad I couldn’t walk straight for days. None of it compares to this.
“I’m not him,” I murmur. It comes out hoarse, broken. “Lottie, I’m not.”
She doesn’t answer. Just hugs herself tighter, her knees pulled up like a shield.
I could let it end here. Let her wall me out, keep the distance safe for her. But I can’t. I need something—anything—that isn’t just sitting here drowning in her silence.
“Please.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Roman, are you out of your mind? You think I want to be stuck in a car with you?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “that it’s the only way I can prove I’m not him. You drive. You hold the keys. You decide when we stop, when we turn back. I won’t say a word unless you want me to. Just… give me this.”
Her jaw clenches. I see the flicker of fear there, the hesitation that burns hotter than any insult she could throw. I’m losing her again, so I push softer.
“Please let me prove I’m not him,” I whisper. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The silence stretches. My pulse pounds in my ears. Then—finally—she exhales through her nose, sharp. “Fine. But if you so much as?—”
“I won’t.” I cut in, too fast, too desperate. I soften my tone. “I won’t, Lottie. I swear.”
We walk out together,but the space between us might as well be a mile. She keeps her distance, shoulders stiff, and I let her. I’ve earned that wall.
At the car, she slides into the driver’s seat, her hands immediately gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline. I sink into the passenger seat and hand her my phone.
“Put the address in yours,” I tell her.
Suspicion flickers again. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She doesn’t like that answer, I can tell, but she plugs it in anyway, the map lighting up between us. A blue line stretching out of the city.
The engine hums. She pulls out onto the road, and the silence wraps back around us like barbed wire.
We drive. Past neon signs, past neighborhoods that bleed into empty fields. I keep my gaze fixed on the window, on the blur of dark countryside rushing past.
Every now and then, I sneak a glance at her. The way her hair catches the passing light, the tight set of her jaw, the way her knuckles whiten around the wheel. She’s wound so tight she might snap. And it’s my fault.
I try not to speak, but the words grind out anyway. “Back then. When you stopped talking at school, you don’t know how much that killed me.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp, but she doesn’t say anything.
