Atlas's POV
She says, "Let's go now then," and before I can ask where, she tosses me a helmet.
It smells like cigarette smoke and cherry lip gloss.
I should've said no. Should've turned around and walked back to the life I've spent years building—carefully, quietly, without chaos or risk.
But I didn't.
Because she was already getting on the bike, already revving the engine like this wasn't impulsive, like this wasn't reckless, like she wasn't dragging us both straight off a cliff.
And I got on.
We took the highway, cutting through the night like a secret we weren't supposed to keep. Her hair whipped behind her like dark ribbons. The wind stung my face. She didn't speak. Neither did I.
We rode for hours—past the last traffic light, past gas stations that were already closing, past the edge of the city and the reach of anything familiar. Then, just when the night started to feel too heavy, too silent—
We ran out of gas.
The engine coughed once. Then died.
She parked the bike on the side of the road and climbed off like this was part of the plan. Like it always had to end this way.
"I guess we're walking," she said, pulling her boots out of the dust.
"You planned this?" I asked.
She smiled. "I don't plan anything. Planning's for people who don't want to feel."
I didn't answer.
We walked for what felt like miles. Streetlights disappeared. Then the road. Then the sound of anything but waves.
And suddenly—we were at the beach.
The ocean stretched out before us, black and endless. The stars were blurry overhead. The sand was freezing.
We sat down like we belonged there. Like this was home.
Her boots came off first. Then she dropped into the sand with a sigh, laying back, arms sprawled, hair tangled everywhere like seaweed. She looked ruined. Wild. Beautiful.
I took my hoodie off and handed it to her. She didn't say thank you, just pulled it on and curled her legs up to her chest.
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, "Phone's dead."
I checked mine.
Same.
"No money," I muttered.
"No food," she added. "No water. No other clothes."
We looked at each other.
We laughed.
Not because it was funny, but because it was stupid. Because it was insane. Because maybe this is what falling apart together feels like.
We spent the night lying in the sand, backs to the world, eyes on the stars.
She didn't ask why I followed her. I didn't ask where we were going.
And for the first time in years, I didn't care.