We leave the motel separately, careful not to be seen. My mind races the whole drive home, replaying her words, her touch. The stench of stale smoke and cheap detergent still clings to my clothes, a silent reminder that our secret is no longer just emotional—we've taken it all the way.
At my apartment, I shower twice, trying to wash off the guilt and fear. It doesn't help. I check my phone repeatedly, half-expecting Elena to text me with instructions on some grand escape plan. But she stays silent.
That night, I lie in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. My future feels like a deck of cards teetering on a table edge—one nudge, and everything collapses.