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Just the sound of hope dying on her tongue.

58

Marlowe

The gun doesn’t go off right away.

There’s a moment before it.A beat too long.Like the world is holding its breath for a different ending.

He looks at me.Not pleading.Not apologizing.Just looking.Like maybe he sees me now for the first time without projection.No guilt.No theory.No system.Just me.

And I don’t look away.

I’m aware, too.Of everything that’s already in motion.Of the men in front of me.Of the weapon already raised.Of the fact that I can’t stop what’s coming, even if I wanted to.

And God, I do.

I don’t say it.There’s no room for that.Not enough time.

The shot tears through the quiet.Not cinematic.Not poetic.Just loud.Final.

He drops without drama.No last words.No reaching hand.Even in death, it takes him a second too long to fall.

I don’t move right away.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I couldn’t stop it.Didn’t cry.Didn’t beg.Didn’t tell the truth.

Because what would I have said?That he was wrong, but not entirely?That he hurt me, but not the way people think?That a part of me, somehow, against all better judgment, wishes it could have been different?

No.

I run.

Past them.Past the car.I don’t wait for permission.Don’t give them the chance to tell me where to go.I just run.

The air tastes like dust and salt.My legs are shaking, but I don’t stop.Not until the house is a shape behind me and the noise of it is gone.

And when I finally slow, I touch the inside of my wrist—where the restraint left a mark that still hasn’t faded.

The irony isn’t that he took me.It’s that I would’ve gone willingly—if I could.

I don’t cry.I just breathe.One breath.Then another.

Some things take.

Some things leave.

And some things do both.

I don’t look back.There’s nothing there for me anymore.And too much of me is still there to take the risk.

59

Marlowe

Irun.