Page 39 of Wreckage

Elena

Aweek had passed since the crash. Seven days. It felt both impossibly long and painfully short.

The fire hadn’t worked.

I remembered how Troy had said it must have meant we were far from civilization, that if no one had seen it, we were in a place so isolated that even a raging inferno wouldn’t be enough to draw attention.

That knowledge settled like a rock in my stomach. It offered no comfort.

The days blurred together in cold, hunger, and quiet haze. We barely spoke, rationing what little food we had. I had given them the small stash from my bag earlier in the week, but it was already gone. We were down to scraps now, barely enough to sustain us, and water was becoming an issue, too.

Adrian had mentioned melting snow and boiling it if we needed to. That would buy us some time, but time was precisely what I was afraid of.

I was beginning to wonder if we even had any left.

Each night, sleep came slower, and when it did, it was restless, filled with fragmented dreams that bled into waking nightmares. And still, the world outside remained quiet.

Nobody was coming for us.

That thought nestled deep in my bones, chilling me more than the winter ever could.

I wokein the middle of the night, shifting beneath the covers as a dull, throbbing pain burned in my ankle. The sharp sting sent a gasp to my lips before I could stop it, and I clenched my jaw, trying to stifle the sound.

But it was too late.

Troy stirred beside me, a low hum of awareness slipping from him as he turned his head toward me in the dimness of the wreckage. The only light came from the moon, streaming through a window, casting silver streaks across his face.

I exhaled slowly, trying not to move, but his voice was already cutting through the silence.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Troy shifted, propping himself up slightly on his elbow, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. “You’re hurting.” It wasn’t a question.

I hesitated before whispering, “Yeah.”

His brows furrowed slightly, and something in his expression softened.

“I wish I could take your pain,” he murmured.

I blinked, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. My chest tightened as I stared at him, unsure how to respond. For so long, he had been distant, cruel in his cold indifference toward me. And now?

Now, he was looking at me like I mattered. Like he cared.

Troy must have noticed my hesitation because he exhaled softly and added, “I mean it.”

I looked away, focusing on the jagged shadows stretching across the wreckage. “It’s just surprising to hear you say that.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess it is.”

Silence settled between us, Adrian’s soft snores filling the space where words should have been. It was chilly, and I could see my breath painting the air faintly.

Troy’s voice broke the quiet. “What’s your favorite color?”

I turned back to him, startled by the sudden change in topic. I shivered. “What?”

He smirked slightly. “I asked what your favorite color is.”

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