Page 56 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

At home, silence is heavy.

It creeps through the cracks, settles in the corners of rooms, and coils around your chest like it belongs there. It’s full of the things we don’t say—the anxiety we pretend not to feel, the futures we’re scared to talk about, the love that’s always been too big and too fragile to hold properly.

But here?

The silence is softer.

It hums in the background like a lullaby, broken only by the rustle of wind in the gum trees or the occasional low groan of the old pipes. Out here, in Smalls’s weatherboard house on the beach, the world feels slower.

Simpler.

Safer.

Or at least it’ssupposedto.

I’m curled into the corner of his couch, legs tucked beneath me, a blanket draped around my shoulders. The mug in my hands is still steaming—too hot to sip, but I hold it anyway, letting the warmth sink into my palms.

Something to focus on.

Something real.

“You look like shit,” Smalls says, not unkindly, as he drops into the armchair across from me.

I glance up and raise a brow. “Charming.”

He shrugs, stretching his long legs out in front of him and kicking off his boots with a grunt. “Just being honest.”

There’s no point pretending he’s wrong. I probably do look like shit. I know I feel like it. My hair’s in a messy bun I haven’t touched in two days, I haven’t slept properly since the hospital, and there’s a persistent tightness in my chest that doesn’t go away—not even here.

Not even away fromhim.

He loves me, and that scares the shit out of me.

I stare into my tea like it might hold some kind of answer, like the swirl of steam can distract me from the way his name has been echoing in my head for the last twenty-four hours.

Rhys.

Always Rhys.

Smalls watches me. I can feel it—the way his gaze holds me like a mirror, like he’s waiting for the moment I crack and spill all the messy, tangled pieces across his floor.

“So,” he says finally, his tone deceptively casual. “You gonna tell me why you’re really here?”

I blink. “I told you—I needed a break.”

He snorts. “And I toldyou—bullshit.”

I sigh, setting the mug down on the table with a soft clink. “Smalls?—”

“You’re not here because you need space,” he cuts in, voice flat but not unkind. “You’re here because you’re scared. And because running is easier than staying.”

My stomach twists. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You ran. Not from the seizures. Not even from the diagnosis. You ran fromhim.”

I feel the heat rise in my chest—the guilt, the shame, the ache of missing him that feels like it might split me in half.

“I needed to get away,” I whisper.

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