The truck door creaks open. Your shoulders tense.

Boots hit the ground with a splash. His hand closes around your arm, too tight, too fast and for a second, your feet barely touch the street.

Then he lets go.

Your knees hit the concrete with a dull, bruising thud. Your hands scrape. You wince but there's no time to stop. No time to think.

The truck door slams shut. Tires skid.

You push yourself forward. Fingers dragging. Elbows shaking. You chase after the glow of those red taillights like they mean something.

The rain keeps falling.

You don't make it far. Your legs crumple beneath you. Your scraped hands slip against the slick ground. But still, you try to crawl.

A shadow falls over you.

It isn't him. It isn't anyone like him.

A soft figure crouches beside you, pale pink fabric brushing the edges of your vision, a hand reaching out, not grabbing, not forcing, just waiting.

Aerith kneels there in the rain, her expression open, wide with quiet heartbreak. Her eyes follow the truck disappearing down the street, then lower to meet yours.

For a moment, she says nothing. Just watches you shake, watches the bruises bloom beneath the rainwater.

Then, gently, her hand hovers by yours.

"You don't have to chase him," she whispers softly, voice cutting through the rain like sunlight through clouds. "Not anymore."