Page 6 of Break Me Apart
They make you stupid.
Futures with undefined ends, outcomes without contingencies, and Caiden present in ways that are not tactical or temporary. I wake up with my jaw clenched and my pulse unsteady most mornings, the combination of which is also deeply irritating.
It’s on the eighth morning I find a reason and leave base under perfectly acceptable pretences. The papers are signed and stamped, my expression is arranged into the neutral calm of a man with nothing to hide, and nowhere else he would rather be. Routine has always been my shield. Discipline, my preferred form of mercy. If anyone asks, I’m doing something boring and necessary.
If anyone doubts me, that’s their problem.
The car carries me through the checkpoint and then into civilian movement, noise, and the unregulated sprawl of people living without consequence.
Must be nice.
I keep my eyes forward because looking too closely at other lives has never ended well for me. I should turn left at the second intersection. That takes me to the depot, completes the task, and closes the loop. I signal anyway. And then, very deliberately, I turn right.
Small betrayals are still betrayals.
The internet café appears exactly where I remember it, tucked into the street as if trying not to be seen, its sign faded enough that you would have to be looking for it to notice it at all.
Inside, the air smells faintly of dust and overheated electronics. It’s the kind of place that exists solely to facilitate other people’s secrecy. There are a handful of terminals along the wall. All are identical and almost obsolete, which is precisely why they work for what I need. Modern systems leave fingerprints. Old ones leave you with tetanus — at worst — if you touch the wrong surface.
A teenager behind the counter glances up, takes in my age, sees the uniform, and immediately loses interest. I’m not here for anything he understands, so I let him stay ignorant.
I choose a computer at the far end with my back to the wall, the habit overriding the fact that this isn’t a hostileenvironment. I set my folder beside the keyboard, and I even sit as if I belong here.
Like I’m not about to do something painfully stupid.
This should be the part where my brain tells me it’s a bad idea. But my brain is apparently on holiday. Instead of waiting for it to come back, I wake the screen.
The browser loads slowly, and I type the address from memory without hesitation.
The inbox appears.Unread: 1.
Curious about what else you could read?
Search forLokepubon Google and browse at your own pace.
One message. One week. One decision Caiden made the moment he was alone enough to do it.
He did write.
The relief hits me in a wave I wasn’t prepared for. Why wouldn’t he? He’s the sort of man who sees distance and immediately starts building a bridge.
Even if it kills both of us.
I don’t open it immediately. I look at the sender first, returnfire, shockingly accurate. The timestamp confirms what I already knew.
He didn’t wait long.
He landed, gave it a day, found privacy, and wrote to me because that is how he handles separation, by closing distance wherever he can.
I should hate that about him.
But I don’t. I love it.
I open the message, and I read it slowly, once, then again, letting his voice form in my head with uncomfortable clarity.
The logistics are first. Safe, landed, nothing exploded. The part he knows I need before anything else. My mouth tightens into something that’s almost a smile. It’s annoyingly considerate.
It makes me want to bite him.
