Page 123 of Hide From Me

Each word is a gut punch. I flinch, visibly. But I don’t interrupt. Ican’t. She needs this. Shedeservesthis.

“I read every single line of that NDA and realized the man I’ve been givingpiecesof myself to has been living a double life this whole time.” Her voice cracks, like something inside her is unraveling.

“And the worst part?” Her arms drop to her sides. “The worst part is that even after all of it... I still want to believe you. I still want to fall back into whateverthisis, like it won’t kill me.”

I feel as if I'm being pulled under by an invisible weight. My chest tightens painfully, heavy with the intertwining strands of guilt, longing, and grief. Each emotion wraps around me like a vice, making it hard to breathe, as if the very air I need is being stolen away.

“Then let me fix it,” I plead.

She shakes her head without hesitation. “You can’t.”

I wince and look away as I whisper, “You’re wrong.”

“I’mnot,” she says firmly, no tremor this time. “Not this time. You need space to figure yourself out, Moe. You said it yourself—you only just found out who you really are.” She takes a step back like the space is a requirement. “And I need space to figure out if I can ever trust you again.”

Her words shred straight through me like razors, and I swear I feel every one of them slice along my rib cage. My next breath comes out in pieces. I know I’m unraveling and the best goddamn thing I can probably do for myself right now is keep my fucking mouth shut, but I say it anyway.

“But I love you,” I whisper. No armor left. No pride. Just the truth. “I love you, Raylen. I’ve loved you since the day I met you. I didn’t know it then—not the extent of it—but I do now. I have for a while.”

She shuts her eyes, head tilting forward, her chin trembling like the ground beneath her is no longer steady. My words hang in the air, heavy and hot and fragile.

“I believe you.” Her voice is barely audible now. She’s saying words, yes, but not the ones I was hoping to hear in return. “But love doesn’t fix this. Not right now.”

I can’t take it. I can’t stay still. Pain be damned, I reach out. My muscles scream in protest. The IV line strains against my movement. My side burns as if it's being ripped open again—but I do it anyway, just to get my hand a little closer to her.

“Please don’t walk away.”

Raylens fingers clench and unclench at her sides as she takes two steps toward the door. Her back is straight, but I can see the tension in every part of her body.

“I’m not walking away,” she says after a long pause. “I’m just... stepping back.”

It feelsthe same. Itsoundsthe same. But I nod anyway. She reaches the door and stops, her hand hovering over the handle, hesitating.

Then, her voice drops to a soft and sacred tone. “If there’s anything left of us one day,” she whispers, “it’ll have to start over. From the beginning. No lies. No masks. No secrets.”

I nod again, even though it’s killing me. My lips twitch upward, unsteady.

“Hi. My name’s Moe…” I manage to say, trying to smile even as my throat feels tight.

And for just a second—one small, beautiful second—a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Bye, monster,” she murmurs, and then the door clicks open.

She slips out and the second it closes behind her, I sink back into the pillows like I’ve been shot all over again. My body hurts. My soul hurts worse. It’s a silent ache that reaches into the marrow of my bones.

“For fucks sake.” I groan as the click of the door echoes again. I don’t even need to look.

Laura steps inside like she’s got every right to.

The change in the air gives her away. First, I notice the scent of antiseptic, then the familiar shuffle of soft-soled boots and the faint jingle of the silver bracelets she never removes. I don't move; I just stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched, pretending I don't see her shadow at the edge of the bed.

“I just came to check your dressings,” Laura says carefully, as if I’m some kind of wild animal that might bite. “Five minutes, that’s all.”

“Funny,” I mutter, “That’s about how long it took you to betray me last time… and the time before that.”

She exhales through her nose, measured and steady. I recognize that sound: Laura processing, counting back from ten like she’s been trained to do with trauma patients. But I’m not a trauma patient. Not to her.

“You’ve stabilized well,” she says softly. “I wanted to—”

“No,” I bite out.

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