Chapter 30
AMY
Iglance at my pad. Lines blur. “Darun, I have to tell you something...” I rewrite the same sentence again and again, but the words refuse to mean what I need them to mean. They sting like salt. Guilt is a weight in my ribs.
Outside the apartment windows, the neon glitters off wet streets.
The city hums. Rain taps lightly on the panes.
The holo-screens on distant buildings bleed headlines: “Matthews Exposé — Public in Uproar”, “Anchor Under Fire”.
I feel the vibration of outrage in the walls around me. The backlash is growing.
I start typing a new segment in my head: truth about Kanapa. Then the truth about Darun. About what’s in my heart. About the life I built in his absence. But the words catch in my throat.
I hear my holo-comm ping. Rex. I press “Accept,” voice tight.
“Amy,” he says, urgency breaking through the static, “you’ve got protesters outside. I just got a video—crowds, signs, chanting your name but calling for cancellations. Hate mail—threats—every margin of the net is bleeding now.”
My scalp prickles. My stomach flips. “They can’t silence me,” I whisper, more to myself than him.
“They might try. The board’s shaken. Legal’s demanding a retraction clause. They want you to go dark for a week. Cool off. Let this die.” Rex’s voice cracks. “I swear, I’m going to fight it—but be careful.”
I cut him off. “I’m not backing down. You tell them—no. We go full. Everything. Not half truths. All of it.”
His silence holds weight. “I’ll back you.” Then more softly: “Just… be smart.”
I end the call. My hand shakes. The pad slides from my fingers. I catch it. I stare at the floor. The rain keeps its rhythm on the glass. I swallow.
In the hush, the door clicks. Darun enters. He carries a bag—takeout. The scent of warm spices and grilled meat spills into the apartment and lands on my face. The air smells like garlic and char and hope.
He steps closer. The overhead light flickers, casting shadows across his face—strong cheekbones, tired eyes. The jacket is damp. He unwraps the bag.
“This felt like home,” he says, voice low. He sets the containers on the table. Steam rises. I hear rice settle, chopsticks tapping the plastic lid.
I can’t meet his eyes. Everything is weight. The words on my pad. The secret lurking between us. My chest compresses.
“Me too,” I lie. I swallow. The lie tastes bitter.
He glances at me.
“I was thinking—maybe tomorrow we go out. Walk the city. Feel real things again. Smell street food. Hear music.”
I nod, voice small. “Yeah. I’d like that.” But part of me wants to run away. Part of me wants to confess. And part of me wants to hide.
He opens a container. Steam curls around his face. The smell of cumin, garlic, charred vegetables. He holds up a piece of grilled meat to me. “You want?” His eyes hopeful.
I manage a smile. “Always.” I take it. The warmth on my tongue anchors me.
We eat in silence, the city humming beyond the windows. Rain drips somewhere. The walls hold so much tension.
Afterwards, he stretches, rubs his arms. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod, toss the pad aside. I can’t bear to look at it now. “Just tired,” I say.
He comes closer. The hum of his proximity makes my nerves sing. I sense him wanting to reach out, but he holds back. We’re still unlearning the distance.
He says, softer, “I missed this. Missed you.”
I inhale. The spice on my fingers. The light glint in his eyes. “I never stopped.” The words tremble, heavy with what I’m not saying.
He moves to the couch. I follow. The apartment dims. The holostation flickers softly in the corner. Rain patters. The city’s glow seeps through windows.
He sits. I sit beside him—but not too close. The space between us is elastic, fragile.
He gazes at me. “Tell me, what’s on your mind?”
I swallow. The secret pulses. My chest tightens. I glance at the pad under the coffee table. My fingers twitch.
But then he takes my hand. Not pressuring, just contact. Warm. Solid. We stay in that silence, eyes locked. The weight of everything unsaid holds between us.
I press my lips. “I—there’s so much I want to tell you.” My voice cracks. I breathe slow, steadying. “About everything that happened while you were gone.”
His eyes sharpen. He nods. “I’m ready.”
My heart hammers. The secret screams inside. But I swallow. The moment isn’t safe yet. Not here, not now.
I lean against him. His arm around me. I press in, find comfort. The city hums. The rain falls. I taste garlic, smoke, rain, desire. The secret stays buried one more night.
But tomorrow, I’ll cross that edge.