Rowan
I didn't go home that night.
I drove past the familiar streets, past the house that had taught me how to listen for anger before it arrived. I knew if I walked through that door, I would be expected to explain myself. Why I was late. Why I looked tense. Why I always carried my silence like armor.
I wasn't in the mood to be dissected.
So I ended up at the gym.
The place smelled like metal and sweat and discipline. Predictable things. Things that made sense. I wrapped my hands, tightened my grip, and let my body do what my mind couldn't.
Hit.Breathe.Hit again.
Pain was honest. It didn't pretend to care. It didn't disguise itself as concern or love. It showed up, did its damage, and left.
I preferred that.
Marcus spotted me mid set. "You're going to tear something if you keep pushing like that."
"Then it'll give me something real to focus on," I said.
He shook his head. "You ever get tired of punishing yourself for things you didn't break?"
I paused.
Just for a second.
Then I shrugged. "Keeps me sharp."
He didn't buy it. None of them ever did. But they knew better than to push. I'd built a reputation around not being questioned. People mistook it for confidence.
It was easier than explaining the truth.
Strength, to me, had always meant control. Control over my reactions. Control over my space. Control over the way people saw me. If I could dominate a room, no one would look closely enough to see the cracks.
That's what growing up taught me.
If you let your guard down, someone will use it against you.
After the gym, I sat in my car with the engine off, forehead resting against the steering wheel. My phone buzzed. A message from my mother.
Come home. Let's not fight.
The words tightened something in my chest.
Let's not fight. As if I had started it. As if standing my ground had ever been an option that didn't come with consequences.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I drove back to the park.
It was quieter at night. Fewer people. Fewer performances. Just benches, trees, and the kind of stillness that didn't ask questions.
I sat down and let the exhaustion catch up to me.
I wondered, not for the first time, when I'd decided that being alone was safer than being known. When distance had turned into a habit instead of a choice.
Relationships required surrender. And surrender had never ended well for me.
Every time I'd tried, I'd felt the old weight return. Expectations. Demands. The pressure to soften, to explain, to be less sharp so someone else could be comfortable.
I didn't want that.
I wanted silence without punishment. Space without guilt.
I wanted to exist without being measured.
My gaze drifted across the park without intention, settling on an empty bench across the path. I didn't know why my attention lingered there. There was nothing special about it.
Still, I imagined someone sitting there. Someone quiet. Someone not asking for anything. Someone whose presence didn't feel like a negotiation.
The image irritated me.
I stood up abruptly.
I wasn't looking for connection. I wasn't missing anything. This was just fatigue talking. Temporary weakness.
I walked away, telling myself the same thing I always did.
I was fine on my own.
And yet, the thought followed me all the way home.