9. I didnt invite you to entertain me.
The night was dark and gloomy. As if it was signalling the horrifying occurrence about to take place.
There was a storm.
Thunder cracked so loud it rattled my bones, splitting the sky open in violent flashes of white. Rain hammered against glass. Too loud, too fast, each drop sounding like it was trying to break through.
I was small. Too small. My feet didn't touch the floor of the backseat.
"Ayra," my mother said, noticing my scared expression, her voice tight. "Sweetheart, it's okay."
But it wasn't. I was very young. Too young to fully understand what was happening. But even then I knew that something was horribly wrong.
The car swerved slightly, tires hissing against the soaked road. Wind screamed outside, bending trees like they were made of paper. I clutched my stuffed toy to my chest, fingers numb, my heart pounding too hard.
Headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. Too close. Too bright.
Dad slammed his hands on the steering wheel, and I blinked rapidly, noticing the bead of sweat on his forehead.
"Mom?" I whispered in my tiny voice, scared.
The car made a strange, loud noise before slowing to the side of the road and coming to an abrupt stop.
"No," dad muttered, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. "No, no, no."
Silence rushed in, thick and terrifying, broken only by the rain and my own breath coming too fast.
The car behind us stopped.
A door opened. I couldn't see faces. Just shapes. Shadows stretching unnaturally long across the wet road.
"Ayra," my mother said urgently, twisting in her seat to reach for me, her hand wrapping protectively around mine. "Hide beneath the seat. Don't look. Close your eyes."
The door was yanked open. I heard muffled voices, unable to make out what was said.
Dad stepped out.
"Please," my mother pleaded. "Please don't—"
There was a flash of metal. Silver. Sharp. A knife.
I screamed, but no sound came out.
My hand slipped out of mom's hold.
Red bloomed everywhere, unreal and too bright against the darkness. I tried to move, tried to reach them, but my body felt frozen, trapped in the backseat, five years old and helpless.
The faceless men moved closer.
The door to my side yanked open. They easily dragged me out. I screamed, struggled and cried.
And then...
More people appeared.
I was pulled away from their merciless clutches.
A woman pulled me behind her, shielding me with her body.
The knife lifted again.
I squeezed my eyes shut—
I woke up panting.
I bolted upright, my heart slamming violently against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs, my skin slick with sweat.
"No—no—no—" I gasped, dragging in air like I'd been underwater.
The room was dark and quiet.
"Too dark... too—" I sputtered out, turning the lamp on immediately to have some light in the room.
I hadn't had that nightmare in years.
I pressed a hand to my chest, grounding myself in the steady rise and fall of my breath. My throat burned. My hands shook as I looked around the hotel room, the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.
But the fear lingered anyway, curling deep in my chest like it had never left.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my feet into the carpet, needing to feel something solid.
And then tears fell out of my eyes, unstoppable, as my heart squeezed violently in my chest.
———
I woke up with my heart racing and my sheets twisted around my legs. There was a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It was only a nightmare.
But the images clung to me like damp fabric. Rain lashing against glass, headlights slicing through darkness, the sound of metal groaning, a scream that might have been mine or might have belonged to someone else. A knife flashing. Faceless men. Blood.
I pressed my palm against my chest, grounding myself until my heartbeat slowed.
By the time I got ready and made my way to the conference, I felt.
.. off. Like I was moving through the day half a step behind my own body.
I smiled when spoken to. I nodded at the right moments.
I contributed when necessary. But the ease I'd grown into over the past few days was gone, replaced by a quiet heaviness that sat just beneath my ribs.
Across the hall Daxton looked at me as if he could tell I was upset.
His brow furrowed when I didn't meet his gaze. When my answers were shorter. When I didn't laugh at a comment that would've normally earned at least a small smile.
The conference wrapped up earlier than expected that afternoon.
I gathered my things slowly, hoping I could slip away unnoticed.
"Hey."
His voice stopped me.
I turned to find Daxton standing a few feet away, jacket slung over his arm, tie loosened.
"You've been very quiet today," he said gently. "That's not like you."
I forced a small smile. "I'm just tired."
He studied me for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. "You don't look tired," he said. "You look like you're carrying the weight of something."
I felt slightly surprised, slightly endeared that he noticed. Understood.
"No, I just... I didn't sleep well last night." I replied, averting my gaze.
"Walk with me?" he asked. "Fresh air might help."
I hesitated, then agreed. "Okay."
We stepped outside, the late afternoon air cool and pleasant. The hotel grounds were quiet—manicured paths, low fountains, tall trees swaying slightly in the breeze.
We walked side by side, not touching, but close enough that I was acutely aware of him.
"I remember my first major conference," he said after a moment. "I barely slept the entire week. Thought I'd mess everything up."
I glanced at him, fascinated. "You? Nervous?"
He smiled faintly. "Terrified. I just learned how to hide it better over time."
That earned a soft huff of air from me. Not quite a laugh, but close.
He noticed.
"There it is." He murmured.
I looked ahead, hands tucked into my sleeves. "What?"
"That sound," he said. "You almost laughed."
I swallowed. "Sorry. I'm not very good company today."
"You don't have to be," he replied easily. "I didn't invite you to entertain me."
We walked a little farther.
"You know," he continued, "strength doesn't always look like confidence. Sometimes it looks like showing up even when you're not at your best."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight.
"I've learned," he added quietly, "that the days that weigh on you the most are usually the ones you don't talk about."
I stopped walking.
He did too, turning toward me without crowding my space.
"Just so you know, you don't owe anyone an explanation. You don't have to talk about something if you're not ready." He affirmed with a gentleness that warmed my heart.
I met his eyes, surprised by the fondness there. "Thank you."
He held my gaze, a soft smile in place. "Of course.... Come on. Let's head back before someone starts looking for me."
I nodded.
As we turned toward the hotel, his presence beside me felt grounding.
And for the first time since I'd woken up gasping for air, the weight on my chest eased.