Part 86
Night again.
The café windows glow faintly in the distance, soft yellow halos behind the fog. She's parked down the road, engine off, hands resting still on the steering wheel — or trying to. They tremble.
Inside her head, scenes loop endlessly. What if I could just take him somewhere quiet? Somewhere no one would find them. She pictures an old cabin by the sea, the air full of salt and silence. No fans. No Leah. No mother with her kind, meddling warmth. Just him — still, calm, only him and her.
Her mind draws the map in sharp, cruel detail. She can almost hear his breathing, almost see him asleep in that imagined stillness. But then, the fantasy breaks apart. The real Adrian — the one laughing behind the counter, wiping coffee foam from his wrist while someone calls him Adrian! like they have the right — pushes into her vision instead.
She digs her nails into her palm until the thought blurs. No, she tells herself. He wouldn't understand yet. He's blinded by them. By all of them.
Her reflection in the windshield looks ghostlike, pale and tired, eyes rimmed red from too many sleepless nights. She talks to it softly.
"You don't want to hurt him," she whispers. "You just want him safe. You just… want him to see."
A small, bitter laugh escapes her.
"Maybe that's worse," she admits to the glass.
The lights fade as a storm gathers on the horizon. She starts the engine again, the sound harsh in the still night. There's no plan — not yet — just the hum of obsession, growing louder, feeding on the ache she refuses to name.