Zayne POV
I didn't make it home, I tell myself I will.
I even get into the car, start the engine, pull out into traffic—but somewhere between the first turn and the second, I know I’m not going anywhere that requires me to pretend I’m fine.
So I circle back. Park, kill the engine and sit.
Hands resting on the steering wheel, fingers tight, breath too shallow for the silence that surrounds me. There’s a pressure building again, not the distant kind. Or the kind I can push aside with work, distraction or routine.
This one is immediate, like something is knocking from the inside, demanding to be let through. I close my eyes.
“Not here,” I mutter under my breath.
But it doesn’t listen, it never does. It doesn’t care about timing or setting or whether I’m ready. It just comes at me hard.
