He had no idea how long he sat like that.
Could've been seconds. Could've been years.
His pulse still thundered in his ears, a frantic drumline against the quiet of his car. It was like his heart hadn't gotten the memo that it was over. That she was alive. That he was still here.
That had been seconds.
Mere seconds.
But it felt like the Earth had spun off its axis and clawed its way back into place by sheer force of will—and luck.
His fingers hovered over the key for a beat longer before turning it.
The engine clicked off.
And suddenly, the silence grew real, it was thick, eerie, charged with everything that almost happened.
Not the kind of silence that screams, but the kind that settles. Heavy. Honest. Final. The hum of the car died. The music had stopped long ago. All that was left was the soft, irregular rhythm of his breath and the faint clamor outside — the world beginning to resume its pace again.
He leaned back, exhaled once — sharp and shaky.
Breathed in.
