It was rushed. Everything about it.
Zayden had dodged all my questions as he pulled me through the front door, his grip on my hand firm and trembling at the same time. No one was in sight,not a guard, not a maid. Just silence, thick and expectant, as if the house itself held its breath.
"Where are we going?" I asked for the millionth time.
He didn't answer.
We kept walking until I could no longer feel my legs. Then, out of nowhere, we came upon a car idling by the roadside, engine humming softly. Zayden opened the door, guided me inside, and climbed in beside me. The driver said nothing. The car sped off into the night.
Zayden's hand was still in mine, gripping tightly, his knuckles white. He hadn't spoken since the only words that started all this: "We have to go."
The drive was long and silent. Every bump in the road echoed through the emptiness inside me.
When we reached the airport, I finally yanked my hand free. "Zayden."
He turned, startled.
"What is it? Where are we heading to?"
His eyes darted around nervously, scanning the crowd. "We don't have time."
"Zayden," I pressed, stepping closer. "Tell me what's going on."
His voice broke when he said, "Aria, this is how I know."
He grabbed both my hands in his shaky ones. His touch felt desperate, like a man clinging to a ledge.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice trembling. "For everything. For the lies. For not saving your brother. For all the pain I caused you." He paused, swallowing hard. "It's hard to make amends when you're already half in hell."
"Zayden…" I tried to stop him, but he leaned forward and kissed me.
It wasn't soft or romantic,it was broken. A goodbye kiss that lingered too long, that burned like a wound. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against mine, his breath uneven.
"Please," he whispered, "wherever you find yourself, stay there. Don't come back. I'll clean things up here. And if I make it out alive..."
A small sound escaped me, half whimper, half disbelief. My heart was racing, my throat thick with the fear of what he wasn't saying.
Over the airport intercom, a voice announced the boarding for a flight to New Zealand.
Zayden stepped back. His fingers lingered on mine one last time. "I'll come find you. And if I don't…" He smiled faintly, tears glistening in his eyes. "Know that this sinner was sorry till the very end."
My chest constricted so painfully that I thought I might scream.
"Zayden..."
But the driver, Andrew, appeared beside me. "We should go."
I turned toward the voice, then back to Zayden, but he was already walking away,shoulders tense, fists clenched, stride angry and determined.
"Come on," Andrew urged softly, his hand gentle on my arm.
I followed him through the boarding gate, glancing back one last time at Zayden's retreating figure until he disappeared into the crowd.
The first week felt unreal.
I had a new phone, new clothes, a small apartment overlooking a quiet street in Wellington. The air smelled like sea salt and freedom, but it didn't feel like mine.
I tried calling home. No one picked up. I left a voice message that probably wouldn't be returned.
Andrew checked in on me often. He was kind in a quiet, fatherly way, steady, thoughtful. He let me cook my own meals, encouraged me to explore the city, and see the world beyond pain.
But food tasted dull. The city looked grey.
Every time I thought about how I escaped, dread settled in my stomach. Every time I pictured Zayden's eyes,haunted, and resigned,I felt something twist inside me.
One evening, as I sat at the small kitchen table, untouched tea cooling in front of me, Andrew spoke gently from the doorway.
"Are you okay?"
The question broke me.
I didn't even try to pretend. The tears came fast, raw and uncontrollable. "No," I whispered. "I'm not. It feels wrong. I feel like I'm living someone else's life. I shouldn't be here while he's..." My voice cracked. "While he's there."
Andrew came closer, his movements slow, deliberate. He placed a hand on my shoulder. "He just needs time to fix things," he said softly.
"Can he?" I asked, my voice small, almost childlike.
He smiled sadly, like someone who knew both too much and not enough. "Zayden's smarter and braver than he lets on. You'd be surprised what he can survive."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. "How long have you known him?"
Andrew chuckled, though the sound didn't quite reach his eyes. "Long before the fire."
Something in his tone shifted, grief, nostalgia, guilt, maybe all three. Then he changed the subject, asking if my parents had called back.
"They haven't," I said quietly.
He nodded like he already knew.
The conversation drifted to silence.
Later that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sound of the ocean outside my window was soft, rhythmic, and almost comforting. But my thoughts refused to quiet.
Freedom wasn't supposed to feel like this, so lonely, so heavy.
I had wanted to run for so long, but now that I was free, I realized I'd left pieces of myself behind. My brother. My answers. Zayden.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing at the airport, watching me go. His lips trembled as he said, "I'll come find you."
And I couldn't shake the fear that he never would.