Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 150(@200wpm)___ 120(@250wpm)___ 100(@300wpm)
The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t awkward. It’s thick, though, like the air is loaded with words we’re both too afraid to say. I glance across the room at Barron, sitting in the corner chair, staring into the fire with that faraway look he gets sometimes. His eyes are darker than usual, shadowed by something deeper, and I know he’s holding something back.
I wait, letting the silence press against my skin. There’s no need to rush. Whatever’s weighing on him, it’s big, and I can feel the tension in the room, like the moment before a storm hits. I don’t push, though. I’ve learned that with Barron, you have to let him come to you. I still can’t figure out why he’s here, what drove him to my cabin in the early evening like he has something to say.
He exhales, a long, slow breath that seems to carry the weight of the world, and finally, he speaks. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” His voice is low, rough, like it’s been scraped against gravel. He doesn’t look at me as he says it, his gaze fixed on the flames, the words heavy on his tongue. “Something that I think will help explains some things about me.”
I feel my heart tighten in my chest, a knot of anxiety forming in my throat. I don’t say anything, just wait for him to continue. I can sense this is going to be hard for him, and somehow, I already know whatever he’s about to say will change things between us. It has to.
“There was a girl once,” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper. “Back when I was young. We were in love—first love, you know?” He swallows hard, and I can see the way his hands clench into fists, his knuckles white. “She was… everything to me. We grew up together. She used to drive up the mountain to see me every weekend. And then, one night, there was a storm.”
I know where this is going before he says it. The pain in his voice tells me enough, but I don’t interrupt. I can feel my own chest tightening with dread, but I stay silent.
“A tree fell,” he says, his voice hoarse now. “It crushed her car. She never made it.” His eyes flicker toward me, just for a second, before returning to the fire. “I didn’t even know until the next morning. They couldn’t reach me, and by the time I found out… it was too late.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. I can see the pain etched into every line of his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his fists stay clenched like he’s still holding on to something he can’t let go. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t go away, not really. It just gets buried deep, like a splinter that works its way under your skin and festers.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been good with this kind of thing—loss, grief, love. My whole life has been about avoiding all of that. It’s easier not to get attached, not to let anyone in. But Barron… he’s different. He’s strong in ways I can’t even begin to understand, but right now, he looks vulnerable, raw.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I swallow hard, my voice trembling as I speak. “I’m so sorry, Barron.”
He shakes his head, his jaw still clenched tight. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s just… it’s why I’ve kept my distance. Why I don’t let people in. It’s easier that way.”
I get it. I get it more than he knows. “I’ve been running my whole life,” I confess, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My heart races, but once I start, I can’t seem to hold back. “My dad’s job with the military kept us moving when I was a kid—different countries, different cities. I never stayed anywhere long enough to get attached. And now, I guess I’ve just… kept running. I’m always moving on to the next project, the next place. It’s easier that way, you know? No ties, no risks.”
Barron’s eyes lift to meet mine, and for the first time, I see something flicker there—understanding, maybe. Or recognition. I don’t know, but it’s enough to make me keep going. “It’s not just the moving,” I admit. “It’s the fear of getting attached, of putting down roots and risking losing everything. It’s easier to stay detached. To stay… safe.”
He’s watching me now, his dark eyes fixed on mine, and I can feel the tension between us, the weight of everything we’ve just shared hanging in the air. We’re both scared. Scared of getting hurt, scared of letting someone in, scared of loving someone and losing them. But in this moment, I feel something else, too—something stronger than fear.