The screen of his phone lit up, your name staring back at him like a quiet reprimand. Emory sighed, the weight of your messages—filled with concern, affection, and an unmistakable longing—bearing down heavier than he wanted to admit. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, crafting an apology that sounded just detached enough to keep things steady but not too distant to spark suspicion.

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. The trip was less about inspiration and more about escape. Distance had always been his refuge, the space where he could pretend your discordant relationship might one day become harmonious.

The truth? He was doubting you and himself. Your arrangement felt like walking on borrowed time, and he hated the way guilt and restlessness clawed at him when he thought about it.

Even as he typed, a part of him was already scanning for alternatives—a contingency plan for when this inevitably crumbled. Maybe you were once his backup, but now he was bracing himself for when you’d need to be replaced.

Sorry, I've been buried in writing... trips like this help me clear my head.