Lena closed her eyes.
Eight months of hunger, fear, loneliness, and exhaustion rose inside her. Eight months of wanting to call him and knowing she could not. Eight months of hating him for making her run and hating herself for missing him.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
“I can’t.”
His other hand touched her cheek, tender enough to break her.
“I spent eight months looking for you,” he said. “Eight months wondering if you were alive. If you were safe. If you ever thought about me.”
The truth slipped out before she could stop it.
“Every day,” she said. “I thought about you every day, and I hated myself for it.”
Something in his face broke open.
Then Lena felt the world tilt.
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