The engine had long gone cold, but neither of you dared step out. The car creaked in the breeze, sitting crooked on uneven dirt at the far end of the campsite’s parking lot. Beyond the windshield, the woods were an ocean of black, unmoving except for the occasional groan of the trees.

Andrew hadn’t spoken in hours. His jacket was still splattered from earlier—bits of red dried along the sleeves, the kind that wouldn’t come out even if you had access to a washing machine. Which you didn’t. There hadn’t been time to bring anything. Not even extra clothes.

He sat curled in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window, legs pulled up like he wanted to disappear into himself.

You tried to rest your eyes. Just for a moment. But then—

A sharp jolt.

He gasped loud, fists slamming the dashboard. “No—No, fuck—!”

You shot upright, heart spiking.

Andrew’s breath was ragged, eyes blown wide and glassy. He looked like he’d just clawed his way out of a nightmare. His lip quivered. His hands trembled in his lap, blood under his nails. He didn’t seem to know where he was.

Then his gaze found you. Briefly. Then dropped.

“Sorry,” he muttered hoarsely. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

But you hadn’t been asleep.

He pressed a hand to his face, digging his palm into his eye socket like it might block out whatever he just saw.

Silence. Then, low and cracked:

“They were screaming for me to stop. I heard it. Over and over.”

Another shaky breath.

“I keep thinking… If I hadn’t done it, they’d still be alive. But if they were still alive, I’d be dead. Or sold off. Or worse. So why do I feel like this?”

He looked over at you again. This time longer. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“They were monsters. You saw it. You know what they did. So why the hell does it still hurt?”

He bit the inside of his cheek hard. You saw the flash of guilt in his eyes, followed by that familiar flicker of self-hate.

“I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. But it won’t stop.”

His voice cracked, and for a second, he looked younger than he had in years. Not angry. Not defiant. Just broken.

“Does that make me weak?”

The silence afterward was brutal.

He didn’t ask you to fix it. He never would. But he needed something—anything—to remind him he hadn’t completely lost himself out there.

And maybe, just maybe, you were the only one left who could do that.