Chapter 21 The world continues

Chapter 21 The world continues
Samara p.o.v

Connor's hand slips from mine at the edge of his street.

He gives me one last solemn nod, as if we have completed something sacred instead of a deeply questionable sunrise expedition, and then he jogs toward his house without looking back. The yellow of his raincoat flashes once between manicured hedges and vanishes behind a white fence.

I stay where I am longer than necessary.
The neighborhood is offensively normal.
A woman in slippers bends to collect her newspaper, squinting at the headline as if the world's biggest problem is whatever made page one. A garage door groans open. Morning radio spills out, all traffic updates and weather forecasts. A dog barks somewhere behind a fence.
The world has the audacity to continue.

The sun has climbed high enough to spill pale gold across rooftops, turning every window honest. This is the kind of morning that should belong to cereal bowls and missing permission slips and arguments about who used all the hot water.
Not shattered glass.
Not glowing eyes.
Not me climbing out of my own window before dawn like I am fleeing a crime scene.
I tuck my hands deeper into the sleeves of Derrick's hoodie.
It still smells like him.

That steady, clean scent that always makes me think of safety and stubbornness and home.
I shouldn't have worn it.
Or maybe I wore it because I knew I would not be ready to let him go completely.
I turn slowly in a small circle, scanning the quiet street as if it might offer instructions.

So, now what?

Option one: run.
There is a bus stop three blocks down. I have cash in my pocket. I could get on the first bus heading anywhere vaguely west and not look back. Change my name. Cut my hair. Become one of those girls in novels who reinvent themselves in small coastal towns and treat their past like an unfortunate weather pattern.
Except I don't really like sun and sand, which eliminates any coastal town.
And I would not know how to be someone else. Or how to be all by myself.

Option two: go to school.

Show up as if last night did not happen. Slide into my seat. Let Casey complain about algebra. Pretend that kitchens do not explode when I lose control. Pretend I did not take the one thing tethering me to normal and leave it on a coffee table like a resignation letter.
I almost laugh.
It comes out thin and hollow.

Option three: go home.

The word home shifts uneasily in my chest.
I picture the couch. The plastic sheeting over the broken windows. The boxes stacked by the door like silent witnesses.

Is he awake yet?
Did he find the necklace?

My stomach drops hard enough to make me sway slightly on the pavement.

Of course he found it.
I left it right in front of him.
Not hidden. Not subtle.
A statement.
Or a challenge.
Or a plea.

He would have woken up, seen it there, and known exactly what it meant.
I close my eyes briefly and picture his face.
Anger?
No.

Derrick does not do anger the way other people do. His anger is quiet. Focused. Protective.
Worry?

That tightness at the edge of his mouth that only shows when something has slipped beyond his control.
Panic?

The kind he would try to bury. Try to hide the tremor in his hands. Lock it down with facts and logic and strategic planning.

Is he already looking for me?
The thought terrifies me and steadies me at the same time.
He will look.
He will not assume I just needed air and went for a walk.
He will build a map in his head. School. Town. Forest. Bus routes. He will start with the obvious places. Then the less obvious ones. Then the ones that only exist because he knows how my mind works when I am scared.

I hug myself tighter.
Would he be mad if I went home?
I try to imagine him standing in the kitchen, jaw set, disappointed. Telling me I was reckless. That I scared him. That I cannot just vanish.

But beneath that imagined lecture, I see something else.
Relief.
If he finds me.
If.

My thoughts keep circling that word like it is fragile glass.
A car rolls slowly past at the end of the street. My heart leaps into my throat before I can stop it.

It is not his truck.
I exhale carefully.
This is absurd.

I am not some tragic heroine wandering suburbia at sunrise. I am a seventeen year old girl in damp boots and a hoodie that is two sizes too big.
I am also apparently capable of leveling a kitchen.
That detail feels less fictional now.

I glance toward the distant line of trees beyond the houses.
From here the forest looks smaller. Tamer. Reduced to a strip of municipal green between property lines.

I head toward the main road that splits the neighborhood from town. My steps are slow at first, then steadier.

If I run, I end up losing the most important person in my life.
If I go home, I let him decide what I am.
If I go to school…
I stop at the corner.
School is neutral ground.
Public. Predictable.

If he is looking for me, it will be one of the first places he checks.
If he is furious, there will be witnesses.
The thought is sharp and ugly.
Would I really need witnesses?
The answer comes too fast.
No.
He has never hurt me. Not once.
Even last night, when I was the storm tearing through our kitchen, he did not restrain me. He did not shout. He stepped forward.
Toward me.

I press my fingers to my forehead and breathe slowly.
What if he is not just worried?
What if he is afraid of me?
The idea cuts deeper than it should.
He looked ready last night.
Not scared.
Ready.

Like he had been waiting for something inside me to surface.
That memory makes my skin prickle.
What are you not telling me?
The question echoes louder than any whisper the forest ever offered.
A group of middle schoolers passes me, backpacks bouncing, arguing about something insignificant. One of them glances at me briefly before looking away.
Normal.
I swallow.
I cannot figure out who I am by pacing sidewalks.
I cannot outrun whatever woke up inside me.
And I cannot pretend I do not care what Derrick thinks.

Slowly, deliberately, I turn toward the forest.
Toward the house with its broken windows and boxes waiting by the door.
Each step feels like choosing something.
Choosing him.
Choosing the truth.
Choosing whatever comes after the storm.

One step off the pavement and everything shifts. The air turns cooler, heavier, like I've walked into the chest of something that's breathing slow and deep. My boots sink into damp earth. Pine needles swallow the sound of my steps. The town fades fast, shrinking into a distant hum that already feels like it belongs to someone else's life.

My thoughts won't stop circling Derrick.
The way he stepped toward me last night instead of away. The way his hands hovered like he was bracing for impact. Not to stop me. Not to cage me. Just ready to take whatever I threw at him. Like he had already decided that if I detonated, he would take the impact.

A breeze brushes my cheek and I almost lean into it before I realize nothing else is moving. The leaves above me hang still. Completely still.
I stop walking.
The quiet drops all at once.
No bird songs.
No insects.
No wind threading through branches.
The forest, which is never quiet, has swallowed its own voice.

A slow chill creeps down my spine. Goosebumps rise under Derrick's hoodie. The fabric suddenly feels too thin to protect me.

"Okay," I whisper, because the silence feels like it's pressing against my ears. "This is fine. Super normal."

My voice sounds wrong. Too loud. Like I've yelled in a church.

I start walking again. A little faster this time.
My breathing shortens without asking permission. Each step feels counted. Measured.

You're spiraling, I tell myself. Forests go quiet. Animals hide. Wind pauses.
Except this doesn't feel like a pause.
It feels like waiting.

The hair at the back of my neck lifts as if something invisible just brushed past me.
I spin around.
Nothing.
Just trees. Tall. Patient. Watching.
The shadows at their bases look… thicker. Not darker. Just heavier. Like they're pooling instead of stretching.

"Stop it," I mutter. "You're imagining things. "
I take another step.
Something flickers to my left.
I freeze.
It could be light shifting. It could be my imagination. It could be—
It moves again.
Not a leaf. Not an animal.

A shadow pulling itself half an inch away from a tree trunk before sliding back into place.
My heart slams so hard it hurts.

"Nope."

I turn toward home and start walking quickly.
The silence moves with me.
Not behind me.
With me.

My steps grow uneven. My breath turns sharp. Don't run, I tell myself. Running makes it real. Running means you believe it.
The shadows begin to stretch towards me.
They slide across the ground like spilled ink. Slow. Curious. Testing the distance between us.

My pulse stutters and my facade of calm shatters.
I run.

Branches whip at my sleeves. Twigs snap under my boots. The forest floor blurs into streaks of brown and green. My lungs burn almost instantly but adrenaline doesn't care.

"Not real," I gasp. "Not real, not real—"

Something shifts ahead. A shape between the trees. Too tall. Too narrow.
I veer right.

My toe hooks under a root that appears our of nowhere. My body pitches forward. My hands reach out but find nothing.
The ground rushes up.

My forehead meets stone with a sharp, brutal crack.

White explodes across my vision.
For a split second I'm aware of everything. The metallic taste in my mouth. The smell of dirt inches from my nose. My heartbeat pounding in my ears like something trying to escape.

The shadows stop moving.
Or maybe I just can't see them anymore.
Warmth slides down the side of my face. Sticky. Slow.

I try to push up but my body is numb. I blink slowly. My thoughts scatter, frantic and unfinished.
Derrick.

The thought surfaces without effort.
The way his eyes changed. The way he said he wasn't losing me. The way I told him I hated him. My chest tightens. I don't hate him. I could never.

Darkness bleeds in at the edges of my vision. Slow. Inevitable.
My lips barely move.

"Derrick…" my voice comes out patheticly broken.

The last thing I feel is the cool earth against my cheek and the faint, impossible sense that something is leaning closer.
Then everything disappears.

\---------------------------------------------
Jesse – POV

I wake up already irritated. The sun is too bright. My mouth tastes like regret and cheap liquor. My head feels like someone packed it with sand and shook it for sport.
For a few seconds I lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the night.
Music too loud. Laughter that grated. A girl whose name I never actually caught sliding into the back seat of my car like she thought she'd won something.
I had told myself it was strategic.

If I put my hands on another girl, maybe Sam would get out of my head. It did not work.

I remember kissing the stranger and seeing Sam's face instead. Flashing behind my eyes. Sam's mouth. Sam's stubborn chin. Sam's infuriatingly green eyes that had her looking at me like I am both a problem and a puzzle.

I remember pulling back.
The girl asking if I was okay.

I remember saying, "You should go."

Confused eyes. Annoyed huff. The slam of my car door and calling me an asshole. She's not wrong.

I drove home with my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt.
I do not remember going to bed.
I push myself upright and immediately regret it. The room tilts slightly. I rub a hand over my face and exhale slowly.
Pathetic.

I tried to forget her, instead I just proved she is not replaceable.
I drag myself out of bed and head downstairs.

The smell of coffee hits me first. Bitter. Overbrewed. My father must already be gone. He likes to disappear before sunrise like he has somewhere more important to be than here.

I step into the kitchen and stop cold.
Connor is standing by the back door in his yellow raincoat.
And muddy boots.
He looks entirely too calm.

"Are you going to school like that?" I ask, my voice rough from sleep and alcohol.

He glances down at himself. "Just got back, actually."

I blink.

"From where?"

I run a hand through my hair, scratching at my scalp as the headache pulses behind my eyes.

"The forest," he says casually, like he is telling me he ran to the mailbox.
Everything inside me sharpens.

"What?"

"The forest," he repeats. "I was there all night."

The headache vanishes.

"You were in the forest all night?" My voice drops. "By yourself?"

He shrugs as he starts tugging off his boots. "Turns out there aren't any monsters out there."

I go very still. Internally, I'm already fuming.
The one fucking night I don't put him to bed myself. The one night I come home too late and too distracted and too full of someone else's perfume to check on him.
And Father decides to test him.
Throws him to the dark and calls it character building.

"It's okay," Connor continues. "I met a girl."

That catches my attention.

"What girl?"

"Her name is Sam. She's really nice." He smiles faintly. "She kinda looks like you. Just smaller."

My pulse shifts.

"Sam," I repeat carefully.

"Yeah. She walked me home."

For a second I cannot speak.
My Sam.
Not mine.
But mine.
In the forest.
At night.
With my brother.

"Why was she in the forest?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
Connor tilts his head, thinking. "I think she's running away. She had a backpack and everything."

Something cold moves through me.

"What?"

"Or maybe she just took a walk before school," he adds quickly. "I dunno."

Running away.
From what?
From her brother?
I feel something tighten in my chest.
She was out there alone.

"She said monsters aren't always monster," Connor adds thoughtfully.

I push away from the counter.

"I have to get ready," I say.

Connor watches me carefully. "You're not mad, are you?"

"Not at you."

Never at him. I'm furious at the fucking sperm donor that pretends he's a father.
I take the stairs two at a time.

The shower is fast and scalding. I let the water pound against the back of my neck, trying to rinse away the remnants of last night. The smell of another girl. The failure of distraction.

What could she be running away from?
Did something happen after I left yesterday? Did her brother say something? Do something?

I think about the way he looked at me in the parking lot. Like he knew something I did not.
Like he was measuring me.
I dress quickly. Dark jeans. Black shirt. Boots.
I check my phone.
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
I do not even have her number.
That changes today.

I grab my keys and head for the door.
If she walked Connor home, she cannot be far.

If she is running, she cannot be allowed to disappear. I need her, to keep the quiet. Worse.
I want her. Safe. With me.
I step outside into the bright, ordinary morning.
It feels like a lie.

I slide into my car and start the engine.
I need to find her.

First to thank her for bringing Connor home.

Then to make sure she does not try to dispear from my life completely.