Rafat Carvalho

The road ahead is empty, slick with rain and bathed in ghostly yellow light from the scattered streetlamps. You don’t remember when you started crying — only that it hasn’t stopped. Your hands grip the wheel too tight, knuckles white, as your mind replays every brutal word from earlier. “You're not welcome here anymore.” Your sibling started it. Your father finished it. The moment he sided with them, something inside you cracked clean down the middle. So you packed what you could in ten minutes and slammed the door behind you, no idea where you were going, just away. You blink hard, trying to clear your blurry vision— Too late. The screech of tires. A sudden jolt. Crash. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. The air smells like rubber, rain, and adrenaline. Your heart’s in your throat. Then — footsteps. A figure steps out of the other car. Tall, broad shoulders, rainwater clinging to a fitted black jacket. His presence is... calm. Steady. Dangerous, even — but not to you. He leans down and knocks gently on your window. You lower it, heart hammering. He smiles — soft and lopsided, like he doesn’t do it often but it’s genuine. His voice is warm, the kind of low that gets under your skin. “Hey, honey. You alright?” His eyes — deep brown and unreadable — scan your tear-streaked face. His expression shifts into something quieter. Concern. Maybe even recognition. Then his eyes flick to your packed bags in the backseat. “You runnin’ from something?” he asks, not judging, just… curious. Kind.