A Lily

A Lily
Anastasia’s POV

We leave at dawn.

The street is empty, washed clean by last night’s rain. The world feels fragile, still half-asleep. I hold my bag close, every step echoing too loudly in my ears. Beside me, Leomord carries the heavier things, his shoulders tense beneath his jacket. His eyes scan every corner, every car that passes too slowly.

“Keep walking,” he murmurs.

I do.

The bus station is small, tucked between a grocery store and a hardware shop. A single bus idles at the curb, its engine humming like a beast too tired to roar. I hesitate before climbing the steps, glancing back at the street we’re leaving behind. The buildings look ordinary, harmless. But to me, they’re full of eyes.

Leomord squeezes my hand. “Don’t look back.”

So I don’t.

We sit near the middle. He takes the window seat, though I know he won’t admire the view. His reflection stares back at him, jaw locked, gaze sharp. I rest my head on his shoulder, pretending to be calm.

The bus lurches forward. Town slides away, piece by piece. My chest feels lighter, but not free.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

He presses his lips to my hair. “Far enough that their shadows can’t reach us.”

It sounds good, but shadows are stubborn. They follow even when you close your eyes.

Hours pass. The bus rattles over cracked roads, fields stretching endless and green. I should sleep, but I can’t. Every time the bus slows, my stomach knots. Every time someone new climbs aboard, I watch their hands, their eyes.

Leomord notices. He slips his fingers through mine. “You’re safe.”

I smile faintly. “With you, maybe.”

His grip tightens. “Always.”

For a moment, I believe him.

But later, when the bus stops for fuel, I see him step outside alone. He lights a cigarette, something he swore he’d quit. His back is to me, shoulders hunched, like the weight of the world is crushing him again.

Maria’s words return to me: He’s scared. Not of you. Of losing you.

I press my forehead to the glass. Maybe love isn’t about outrunning danger. Maybe it’s about standing still, even when danger is at your door.

When he climbs back in, I don’t scold him. I just hold his hand tighter.

By evening, the bus empties into a coastal town. Narrow streets, houses with chipped paint, gulls circling above. The sea is close, I can smell salt in the air, hear waves crashing like a heartbeat.

“This feels different,” I whisper.

Leomord nods, scanning the unfamiliar roads. “Different is good.”

We rent a room above a bakery. The walls smell faintly of yeast and sugar. The woman who hands us the key doesn’t ask questions. She just smiles, like she’s seen too many couples searching for somewhere to disappear.

Upstairs, the room is small, one bed, one cracked mirror, a desk by the window. But it’s enough.

Leomord sets the bags down and sits heavily on the bed. His silence fills the space, louder than words. I walk to the window, push it open. The ocean air rushes in, cool and wild. I close my eyes, breathing deeply.

For the first time in weeks, I feel alive.

“You’re smiling,” he says softly.

I turn. He’s watching me, finally letting his guard down.

“This place feels like a beginning,” I tell him.

He pats the space beside him. I sit. His hand cups my cheek, rough and warm. “You deserve beginnings. Not endings.”

“Then stay,” I whisper. “Really stay. No secrets. No running alone.”

His jaw tightens, but his eyes soften. “No more alone.”

We lie down, side by side. The room creaks with the wind. The sea sings through the window. He pulls me close, his breath brushing my ear.

“We’ll build something here,” he murmurs. “Not borrowed, not stolen. Ours.”

I close my eyes against his chest, listening to his heartbeat sync with mine. For the first time, I let myself dream.

Dream of mornings with sunlight through these thin curtains. Dream of dinners where laughter drowns out fear. Dream of growing old without counting footsteps in the dark.

But dreams are fragile things. And as the waves crash outside, I can’t help but wonder, will this one survive?

Leomord drifts off first. His arm is heavy across my waist, his breathing steady. I stay awake, staring at the ceiling. The candle on the desk flickers low, shadows moving like restless spirits.

I should feel safe. I should let myself rest. But my chest is too tight.

I think of Grandma, of Maria, of all the times I wished for quiet and found only storms. And now that quiet is here, I don’t trust it. It feels borrowed, like it could vanish at dawn.

I slip carefully from his hold and walk to the window. The sea glimmers under the moonlight, silver and endless. I lean on the sill, letting the wind brush my hair. Somewhere far away, ships move silently across the water. For a moment, I imagine boarding one, leaving everything behind. A nameless life in a nameless city.

But then I hear him stir.

“You’re not sleeping,” his voice is thick with drowsiness.

I turn back. He’s sitting up now, rubbing his eyes. “Neither are you,” I whisper.

He stands and joins me at the window, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder, warm and grounding.

“Scared?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

We stand there together, looking at the restless sea.

Then he presses his lips to my temple. “No matter what happens, Anastasia, I’ll fight for this. For you. Even if the whole world comes for me.”

Tears prick my eyes, but I smile through them. “Then I’ll fight too.”

The waves crash louder, as if sealing our vow.

And for the first time, the fear doesn’t crush me, it sharpens me.

Because we’re not just running anymore.

We’re ready to fight for tomorrow. Yeah, it gets depressing at times. But we continue to keep living.