February

Chapter 13 Guilty Pulse

It had started with a phone call.

"Arlo?"

She sounded like she'd cried herself hoarse, her voice rough and unsteady.

I sat up, disoriented. "Lyra?"

There was a pause, a shaky inhale. "Hey... it's been a while, huh?"

I'd imagined this moment a hundred different ways — the late-night call, the trembling apology, the promise that she'd changed, that she finally wanted to come home. In my head, I'd always said yes. I'd take her back. I'd patch her up, carry her through the storm, like I always did.

But now, hearing her voice on the other end of the line, I didn't feel what I expected. No rush of old fire. No ache. Just... quiet. Numbness — clean, cold, almost merciful.

I'd never felt that way about Lyra before. We were all fever and flame, chaos and craving, passion and poison tangled so tight I couldn't tell where love ended and destruction began.

Back then, we were two half-starved kids drifting from one abandoned house to another, chasing warmth wherever we could find it.

The nights smelled like smoke and cheap liquor, our veins buzzing with whatever we could get our hands on.

There were always others like us too, faces that came and went, wide-eyed and wrecked, kids who'd forgotten what safety felt like and found it, briefly, in each other.

We lived off adrenaline and hunger, off the illusion that we were free when really, we were just lost together.

Lyra was my constant in that chaos. We'd share a bottle, a needle, a night, swearing it meant something deeper because I needed it to. Because if it didn't, then all of the danger, the dirt and the loneliness would've been for nothing.

And now, hearing her voice, I realized that fever had burned out long ago. Whatever we'd had was gone, leaving only the ashes and the echo of who we used to be. Maybe I really had changed. Maybe Berrie had crept in so slowly I hadn't noticed it replacing everything that used to define me.

Lyra tried to fill the silence, her words stilted, thin as glass. "So... how've you been?" It sounded like small talk between strangers. Maybe it was.

I rubbed at my eyes, leaning against the headboard, forcing my voice into something light. "Yeah. Uh, I'm fine. What's up? Are you okay?"

"Not really..." she said quietly.

I hesitated. "Okay."

The silence stretched, and then I heard a soft sob, muffled at first, then breaking open into the phone. "I'm sorry, Arlo. I didn't know who else to call."

My stomach dropped. "What's going on?"

She tried to speak, but the words came out in broken gasps. "I'm... I'm pregnant, and he tried to kill me because he said it's not his. I don't have anywhere to go."

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. "Lyra—"

"He said I'm crazy," she cut in, her voice shaking so hard I could barely make out the words.

"He said I made it all up, that I trapped him.

He called me worthless, said I ruin everything I touch.

" Her voice cracked, small and trembling.

"He threw me against the wall, Arlo. I hit my head.

I thought...I thought if I didn't leave, he'd finish it. "

The silence that followed was sharp and suffocating, broken only by her shallow, ragged breaths. I could hear her trying not to cry, but the sound slipped through anyway.

"He took my phone, my money, even the car keys," she went on, her words tumbling out faster now, like if she stopped, she'd break apart. "Said if I came back, he'd make sure I regretted it. That he'd make me watch him burn everything I have left."

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, staring into the dark, heart pounding.

"I slept behind a gas station last night," she whispered, and the confession was so fragile it almost disappeared in the static.

"I didn't know where else to go. I've been walking all day, my feet are bleeding, my hands are swollen and I can't stop shaking.

I just need somewhere safe. Please, Arlo.

Please. I don't want to lose my baby. I don't want to die out here. "

That is simply awful, no one should feel like this.

"I'm so scared," she whispered, her voice trembling so hard it barely held together. "I don't even have a coat, Arlo. I don't have anything. I just thought... maybe you'd still care. Maybe you'd help me, just for a little while. You're the only person who's ever seen me when I was nothing."

There was a pause and a shaky breath, the sound of her trying not to cry.

"I'm at some acquaintance's place right now," she went on softly. "They said I can stay the night, but I have to be gone by morning."

Then she added, "You owe me, Arlo. You remember, right? When you had nowhere to go, no one? When you were strung out, and shaking, and couldn't even keep food down, I was there. I took you in when everyone else gave up on you."

Her words hit like stones. I closed my eyes.

I did remember. I remembered the night my father threw me out and how the door slammed behind me with that final kind of sound that says you're on your own now.

I wandered for days with nothing but a half-empty backpack and a body that couldn't stop trembling.

I'd sleep under stairwells, behind dumpsters, anywhere the cold couldn't reach too deep.

And then there was Lyra who pulled me up, cursed under her breath, and dragged me to that rundown squat she shared with a few others. She made me eat, forced water down my throat when I was too sick to care, stayed awake through the night when I couldn't stop vomiting.

Being homeless was new to me so for weeks, she kept me alive, stealing food, pawning her own stuff, making sure I had something in my stomach even when she didn't. If it hadn't been for her and that small group of misfits she called family, I probably wouldn't even be here.

She'd given me a mattress on the floor, a blanket that smelled like cigarette smoke, and a hand to hold when everything hurt too much.

"I know, Lyra" I said quietly.

"Then help me now," she whispered. "Please. I just need somewhere safe for a while. I can't... I can't do this alone. If you don't help me, I don't know what I'll do. Sometimes I think—" Her breath hitched. "Maybe it'd just be easier to go back to him and let him end it all."

That's when the fear hit me full force. A cold, crawling kind of fear that pressed against my ribs. Lyra could be unstable when she was cornered, I'd seen her hurt herself before, and I wasn't going to risk having her or the baby's blood on my hands.

So I made a decision I knew would haunt me.

"Okay," I said finally, forcing the words out like they weighed a ton. "You can stay at my place for two weeks. Just until I find something better for you and the baby. But, Lyra—" I hesitated, my throat tightening. "I won't be there. I'll stay somewhere else for the time being."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "What?" Her voice cracked, desperate. "Arlo, no, please—don't do that. I don't want to be alone."

"I can't," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "That house... it's not just mine. I can't bring anyone else there. Especially not you." I exhaled shakily. "Even if my girl is gone right now, it's still her place too. Every inch of it feels like her."

Silence. The kind that presses on your chest until you can hear your own pulse. I could hear her breathing unevenly, like she was trying not to cry.

"Okay," she said at last, voice small, tired. "Then... I'll come in the morning, if that's okay?"

"Yeah," I said quietly. "Just make sure you're safe tonight, alright?"

"Yeah. Don't worry. It's already really late anyway." She paused, the kind of pause that carried too many unspoken things. Then, softly she added, "I still love you, you know."

When we met the next day in a public park. I saw her sitting on a bench, hunched over, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to keep from falling apart.

She looked... beautiful, but in a hollow, frightening way. Her hair was tangled, her skin pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. She'd lost weight and her clothes hung loose, wrinkled, like she'd slept in them for days.

The second she spotted me, she stood up so fast the bench scraped the pavement. Then she ran and before I could react, her arms were around my neck. I froze. Her sobs shook against my chest, raw and broken, the kind that come from somewhere too deep to hide.

And all I could think was: If Berrie saw us now, she'd never forgive me.

I never thought I'd see Lyra again and feel nothing but panic, that the only thing I'd want was to pull away, not because I didn't care, but because I did. Because Berrie had already bled enough from the ghosts I carried, and this one was the worst of all.

"I knew you'd never ignore me," she whispered against my shoulder, a trace of triumph beneath the tremor in her voice.

I gently untangled her arms, forcing a bit of space between us.

"I'm here, Lyra," I said, steady but firm.

"And I'll help you because I owe you that.

" I met her eyes, made sure she understood.

"But there are rules. We will never be what we used to be.

You'll stay at my place for now, but I won't be there.

I'll stay with a friend. I'll bring you groceries, help with medical bills, find you an apartment, make sure you and the baby are safe.

But that's it, Lyra. Nothing else can happen between us. "

She blinked, her lip trembling, eyes glistening with something between gratitude and heartbreak. I could see her searching for the version of me who once burned for her but that person was long gone.

Only the guilt remained. Maybe I did change.

Which has led me here, to this impossible, gut-twisting moment.

I was carrying two grocery bags up the steps to the house, milk, bread, vitamins, a few things for Lyra, planning to drop them off before heading to Levi's. I hadn't even turned off the engine; I just wanted to make it quick, quiet, clean.

But as I rounded the corner, I froze.

Berrie was there.

She was standing by her motorcycle, helmet dangling from one hand, her other shaking as she wiped her face. Even from across the street, I could tell she'd been crying.

My pulse went wild. "Berrie!" I called out before I could stop myself.

She didn't look at me. Just swung her leg over the bike, her movements sharp and desperate.

"Berrie, wait—"

The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever else I tried to say. She took off down the street, hair flying, tail light flashing red against the dusk, and for a second I just stood there, breathless, groceries digging into my fingers like punishment.

Then I turned toward the house, our house, and my chest tightened. Lyra was inside. The curtains were drawn. I set the bags down on the porch, rang the bell once and then ran back to my bike.

I knew exactly what Berrie was thinking. Hell, I'd think the same if I were her. After everything I'd written, what else could she believe but the worst? That I'd let her back in. That I'd filled the space Berrie left with the very ghost that had haunted our beginning.

By the time I caught up to her, my throat was raw from shouting her name. The streetlights flickered over her as she pulled into the park's empty lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires. She stopped the motorcycle, but didn't take off her helmet right away — just sat there, shoulders shaking.

I approached slowly, afraid one wrong move would send her driving off again.

"Berrie," I said softly. "Please."

She turned, eyes flashing through the dark. "Go, Arlo. I don't want to talk."

"Well, too bad," I said, breathless, the words coming out rougher than I meant. "Because now we should."

Her laugh was bitter, sharp. "Should? I left and you brought her back." Her voice broke. "You don't get to tell me what we should do."

"It's not what you think," I said quickly.

"It doesn't matter." She pulled off her helmet, tossed it to the ground, and glared at me, eyes wet. "You're single. You can do whatever you want."

"No." I took a step closer. "I'm not. Maybe technically, sure. But not in my heart. You're still there, Berrie. You're not going anywhere."

Her expression faltered for a second, and I thought I saw something soften, the smallest flicker of the girl who once looked at me like I was home. But then she looked away, arms wrapping around herself.

"Arlo, please," she whispered. "Just leave."

I shook my head, my voice catching somewhere between desperation and resolve. "Please, Berrie. Just talk to me. I know you needed space, and I tried to give it to you, God knows I tried but it's not working for either of us."

I took a step closer, careful, like she might vanish if I moved too fast. "So let's talk. About everything. And if, after that, you still can't trust me and you don't want to forgive me, if you never want to see me again, I'll accept it. But at least you'll know the truth."

My voice broke a little. " Please... it's been months. Don't walk away again without hearing me out."

Her hand twitched, like she wanted to push me away but she didn't. She just stood there, breathing unevenly, eyes fixed on the ground between us.

The silence grew heavier by the second, thick with everything we'd buried and pretended to forget.

It felt like standing in the middle of a storm, waiting for lightning to strike.

And then, before I could lose my nerve, I started talking.