I was already sitting in his car when he pulled into the parking lot. Hood over my head. Knees pulled up to my chest. Trying to make myself smaller than the weight of everything pressing down on me.
He parked next to me. Killed the engine. Didn't say anything—just sat there in his truck with his hands still on the steering wheel like he was trying to remember why he agreed to this meeting.
The silence stretched until it physically hurt. Like someone had pulled all the air out of the space between us and replaced it with something heavier.
"Everyone thinks I'm having some kind of breakdown," I finally said.
He stared straight ahead. Jaw tight. "Are you?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know anymore."
My voice cracked on the last word. I hated how small I sounded. How uncertain. Like I'd regressed back to seventeen and every decision felt like life or death.
"Amber's been posting photos. Old ones from high school. Captioning them with passive-aggressive bullshit about patterns and growth." I pulled my hood tighter. "My mom thinks I left Daniel for you. Teachers from our old school are calling her. Everyone's concerned about my judgment."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Anything. Tell me this isn't as fucked up as it feels."
He didn't respond. Just kept staring through the windshield like the answers were written in the parking lot asphalt.
I turned to face him. "What are we doing?"
"What?"
"This. The campaign. The meetings. Whatever happened at your apartment." My throat felt raw. "What is this?"
He was quiet too long. The kind of silence that meant he was choosing words carefully instead of saying what he actually thought.
"What do you want it to be?" he finally asked.
The question landed wrong. Defensive instead of curious.
"I want it to be real," I said. "Not a reaction to Daniel. Not some rebound I'm using to feel better about myself. Just... real."
His laugh was sharp and bitter. The kind that cut on the way out.
"You sure about that? Because five years ago, real wasn't enough. You left."
The accusation stung because it was true.
"I was twenty-three and terrified."
"You're still terrified."
"So are you."
He finally looked at me with eyes hard. Jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. "The difference is I stayed terrified in one place. You ran across state lines."
My chest tightened. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You came back here for a campaign. For work. Not for me. Not for us. You came back because it was convenient and safe and you could leave when it got hard."
"That's not why I came back."
"Then why did you?"
I opened my mouth and closed it. Because I didn't have a good answer. Not one that didn't prove his point.
"I needed to figure some things out," I finally said.
"And have you?"
"I'm trying."
"Trying isn't the same as doing."
The words hit like a slap. Not because they were cruel. Because they were honest in a way that made me want to disappear.
"What do you want from me, Chase?"
"I want you to stop running."
"I'm not running."
"You're always running. You ran from here five years ago. You ran from Daniel two months ago. And the second things get complicated with me, you'll run again."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" He turned in his seat to face me fully. "You left your notebook at the last meeting. I saw the new list. 'Sleep with someone who sees me clearly.' Well congratulations. Mission accomplished. What's next?"
My stomach dropped. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know yet. I'm figuring it out."
"While I wait around like some backup plan?"
"You're not a backup plan."
"Then what am I?"
The question hung there. Heavy. Loaded with five years of unresolved history and all the ways we'd hurt each other without meaning to.
I reached for the door handle. "Maybe I should keep running."
"Maybe you should."
The words were quiet and final. Like he was giving me permission to do what we both knew I was going to do anyway.
I got out. Slammed the door hard enough that the whole truck shook. He didn't follow. Didn't call after me. Just sat there in the driver's seat while I walked away into the dark.
The night air was cold. Sharp. The kind that made your lungs hurt when you breathed too deep. I wrapped my arms around myself and kept walking even though I had no idea where I was going.
My car was still parked three blocks away. I could have gone back for it. Could have turned around and apologized and tried to salvage whatever just imploded in his truck.
Instead, I kept walking.
Past the closed storefronts. Past the coffee shop where we had our first civil conversation in five years. Past the park where we used to meet when we were seventeen and stupid and thought love was enough to fix everything.
My chest felt like it was caving in. Like someone reached inside and started pulling out everything vital and left me with just the mechanical parts that kept me moving.
I should have been crying. Should have been having some dramatic breakdown that matched the magnitude of what just happened.
Instead, I was just numb.
Cold. Empty.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—for half a second, I thought it was him. That he changed his mind. That he was coming after me.
It was my mom. Text I didn't open.
I made it back to my car eventually. Climbed in. Locked the doors. Sat in the dark with my hands on the steering wheel and my heart somewhere on the pavement three blocks back.
He was right. I was running.
Not from him. From the version of myself that wanted things I was too scared to admit. The one who stayed up all night five years ago wondering if leaving was the biggest mistake of my life. The one who came back to this town pretending it was for work when really it was to see if he still existed outside my memories.
I started the engine. Drove back to the hotel. Parked in the empty lot under a streetlight that flickered like it was trying to decide if it wanted to stay on.
When I got inside, I didn't turn on the lights. Just kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling while my phone sat silent on the nightstand.
No texts, no calls.
Just the echo of his voice saying "maybe you should" like he'd already accepted that I was going to leave before I even knew it myself.
And the worst part? He was probably right.