Chapter 9: Chapter Nine: Flight

The morning feels off in that animal, skin-prickling way—not dangerous, not safe, just… wrong. Alex sits at the kitchen table, scrolling his phone, jaw tight. He barely glances at the ribbon in the envelope, treating it like junk mail. But he’s distracted, spooked in the way men are when a hundred little things pile up.

He stirs his coffee three times before looking at me. “Did you get any weird emails this week? Or, like, a notice about a credit check?”

I pause, shake my head. “No. Why?”

He shrugs, not meeting my eye. “It’s probably nothing. But yesterday my inbox was full of emails I don’t remember opening, and this morning my phone sent me an alert—someone tried to pull my credit, but there’s nothing showing up on the account. Then there was that car yesterday, the one that took every left turn with me downtown. And now… this.” He holds up the ribbon, tries to laugh, but it’s thin. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

I take the ribbon, twisting it in my hands. “You know, you’ve been stressed for weeks. We both have.”

I force a smile. “What if we just got out of the city for a while? Go somewhere, no phones, just us. We need a reset.”

Alex gives me a skeptical look, but I can see the temptation. “Like a getaway?”

“Yeah,” I say, letting the idea grow between us like a lifeline. “You’ve got vacation time. I could work remote for a few days, or just… vanish. No plans, no schedule, no explaining. It’d be good for us.”

He hesitates, weighing excuses. “It’s just—wouldn’t it be weird, leaving like this? In the middle of the week?”

“I think weird might be exactly what we need,” I say. “Let’s just… go. Today.”

He studies my face, searching for the real reason, but I don’t give him one. I pretend it’s just about us, about needing to breathe, about being alive somewhere that man can’t possibly reach.

I’m not running from a ribbon or a shadow. I’m reclaiming control.

Alex nods, slow. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Relief and dread twist together in my stomach. I throw clothes in a bag. I don’t let myself overthink it. I pack chargers, Alex’s favorite hoodie, a book I haven’t opened in months. I write an out-of-office email that’s just vague enough. Alex calls in, says he’s sick, tries not to look at his phone as he deletes half his unread messages.

We lock the door and walk down to the car together, just like any other couple. I can almost believe it’s normal. But my skin tingles as we leave the city behind. Every car in the rearview, every glance from a stranger, feels like a question I don’t know how to answer.

I grip Alex’s hand, force myself to smile. “We’re just getting away. That’s all.”

But inside, I promise:

I am not breaking. I am not giving in.

If he wants me afraid, he’s going to have to work harder.

The road unspools ahead of us, city skyline shrinking in the mirror. Alex drives with both hands on the wheel, jaw set. Every few minutes, he checks the rearview, like he’s expecting someone to appear behind us.

He breaks the silence first. “This feels… weird. Like we’re running from something, but we’re not talking about what it is.”

I keep my voice light. “We’re not running. We’re just taking a break. Unplugging. Remember last year when we said we should just disappear for a week? Think of it like that. No news, no work, no stress.”

He’s quiet for a few miles. “You sure you’re okay?” he says finally. “You’ve been… different. Since the conference.”

I force a laugh. “I think everyone’s been different since then. I haven’t slept through the night in weeks.”

It’s not a lie, but it isn’t the truth, either.

He squeezes my hand, but his eyes flick back to the road, to the mirrors, to the world behind us. “Do you ever feel like we’re being watched?”

A chill runs up my spine. I squeeze back, willing him to feel normal through my touch. “Honestly? These days, who doesn’t? Cameras everywhere, phones listening… I say we ditch our devices for the weekend and just exist for a while.”

He tries to smile, but it wobbles. “Promise me if anything else weird happens, you’ll tell me?”

I nod. “Promise.”

My phone vibrates in my bag, sharp and sudden. For a split second, I think it’s him—the man, somehow slipping through all my blocks.

But it’s Priya.

I hesitate. If I don’t answer, she’ll worry. If I do, she’ll hear every crack in my voice.

“Hey!” I say, forcing brightness.

“Girl, where are you? I just went by your desk and your out-of-office is up. You didn’t mention a trip!”

Alex glances over, listening.

I improvise. “Alex and I needed a mental health break. Last minute. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a picture of some lakeside pancakes or something.”

Priya laughs, but then softens. “Are you really okay? You seemed so off lately. Like, spooked. If you need to talk—”

I cut her off, gentle but firm. “I’m fine. Just tired, promise. I’ll text you soon, okay?”

She lets it go, but her worry lingers even after I hang up.

I tuck my phone away, heart hammering, eyes scanning the tree line and the endless stretch of highway ahead. I want to believe I can outrun this. I want to believe Alex and I can find a place untouched by the chain around my wrist.

We drive for hours, the city melting into empty highway and endless green. Alex fiddles with the radio, skipping songs, his knee bouncing in the way it always does when he’s anxious. I watch the side mirror, counting headlights, tracing license plates, my mind inventing threats out of every ordinary sedan.

After a while, the silence thickens. I roll down the window, letting wind tangle my hair and noise drown my thoughts. Alex glances over, trying for a smile.

“Remember that trip we took to Maine?” he says, voice rough. “The Airbnb with the leaky roof?”

I almost laugh. “And the raccoon that chewed through your hiking boots.”

“Yeah,” he says, relief softening his face. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find another disaster. Something small. Something we can fix.”

I nod, biting back the urge to say that some disasters aren’t meant to be fixed. I wonder if he feels it—the sense that something huge is coming, that we’re two people in a horror movie who haven’t realized it’s already started.

A truck passes us and I flinch, breath catching. Alex squeezes my hand. “You sure you’re okay? We don’t have to keep going.”

“I want to,” I say, almost convincing myself. “I need this.”

He lets it go, humming along to a half-remembered song, but the tension lingers between us. At a gas station, he disappears inside to buy snacks and coffee. I lock the car doors, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I almost text Priya, almost call—but what would I say?

I think we’re being hunted.

I think someone is watching every mile.

When Alex returns, arms full of junk food, he’s smiling for real this time. “Look. Everything you like.” He tries so hard. It almost breaks me.

We drive on, mouths full of salt and sugar. I tell stories about college, about the job I almost took in Chicago, about the time I nearly adopted a cat and changed my mind at the last second. I want to fill the space with noise, with anything but the truth.

After a while, the sky starts to bruise. I glance at Alex, see him watching me, uncertainty and worry tangled with trust. He deserves answers. I almost give them.

“Alex…” I begin, voice trembling. He turns down the radio, waiting.

But the words freeze in my throat. He won’t believe you. He’ll think you’re crazy. He’ll leave, or worse—he’ll stay and be destroyed.

So I swallow it down. “Never mind. Just… thanks for coming with me. For trusting me.”

He leans over, presses a kiss to my temple. “Always.”

As night falls and the world grows strange outside the window, I stare into the dark, knowing I’m lying to him, lying to myself.

But I can’t stop running.

Not yet.

We cross the state line just before midnight, passing a gas station and a string of motels with blinking vacancy signs. The world outside is thick with fog, headlights carving tunnels through the dark. Alex pulls into the parking lot of a shabby roadside inn, its neon sign humming blue and pink in the night. For a moment, we sit in the idling car, listening to the engine tick.

“Should we keep going?” Alex asks. There’s a tremor in his voice, hope and exhaustion braided together.

I shake my head. “We need sleep. And a shower. And maybe a bottle of bad wine.”

He smiles, the kind I remember from the beginning—easy, boyish, real. “You go check in. I’ll grab the bags.”

The lobby is bright and soulless. I give a fake name at the desk, my signature shaky on the register. The clerk doesn’t care. No one ever does, not when the money is good and the guests pay cash. I wonder if that mans money would buy this place, or if he’d just burn it down.

The room smells like bleach and old cigarettes, but the bed is clean. Alex drops the duffel by the door and lets out a long breath. “We made it,” he says, relief so raw it makes my chest ache.

I stand at the window, staring into the dark parking lot, half-convinced I’ll see a familiar car, a shadow moving between the lights. But the lot is empty, just our car and a few trucks, engines cooling in the night. For now, we’re invisible.

Alex showers first. I hear the water running, the scrape of the curtain, the way he hums under his breath when he thinks I can’t hear. When he emerges, damp and pink-cheeked, he looks lighter. I take my turn, scrubbing my skin until it burns, letting the water beat the fear out of my bones. I stare at myself in the fogged mirror, whispering: You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

When I step out, Alex is lying on the bed, scrolling aimlessly. “Come here,” he says softly, opening his arms.

I crawl into bed beside him, the sheets still warm from his shower. He pulls me close, hands skimming my waist, thumb circling slow and reverent at my hip. There’s a tenderness to him tonight, an ache beneath his touch that makes me want to cry. I reach for him, letting my mouth find his in the dark.

For a moment, it’s almost easy: the hush of the motel room, the familiar shape of his body, the way he murmurs my name as he presses me back against the mattress. We move together quietly, a slow, aching tangle of limbs and whispered apologies, as if making love might fix what’s broken or bring us back to the people we were before.

Alex buries his face in my neck, gasping out I love you, his hands trembling on my skin. I hold him tighter, chasing comfort, desperate to believe this can anchor me, that his devotion is enough. But even as I cling to him, guilt gnaws at my chest, every soft sound reminding me of everything I can’t say.

When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, my heart racing not just from pleasure but from fear.

He shudders after, curling around me, breathing evening promises into my hair.

We lie together, tangled and exhausted. I trace the line of his jaw, memorize the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and promise myself that if the worst comes, I’ll fight for him, for us, for this small, imperfect love.

But even as sleep takes me, I can’t shake the sense of being watched—of chains tightening in the dark, waiting for me to close my eyes.