Maya

I slammed the car door shut, heart racing, as panic clawed at my chest. I drove like a madman towards the ATM, desperation fueling my every movement. Armando’s money felt heavy in my hands, a lifeline wrapped in shadows. I deposited the cash and barely managed to pay the water bill—thank God I had just enough for electricity too. A wave of relief washed over me, but it was quickly overshadowed by the weight of Armando’s presence looming over my life now.

My mind screamed in chaos. Would we even make it out alive?

Just then, the panic hit me like a tidal wave. It wasn’t supposed to happen here—at the ATM, of all places. White dots erupted in front of my eyes as I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white with fear. I fought to breathe, forcing myself to inhale deeply, letting the rush of air fill my lungs while the pressure twisted inside me.

What was I going to do with him?

The reality crashed down: the other gang knew about me, and now I was trapped in this mess, shackled to Armando. He’d taken refuge in my apartment, and now I was living in borrowed time—waiting for the storm to break or worse, for them to find us first.

In a sudden outburst, I slammed my palms against the steering wheel, feeling the raw frustration surge through me. I screamed, unleashing the turmoil that swirled within, hitting everything I could reach in the confined space of my car. The sound echoed back at me, a harsh reminder of my spiraling resolve.

And then came the tears. They fell as quickly as they dried, leaving behind nothing but anger and regret. Why did I help him? The question gnawed at me like a relentless itch I couldn’t scratch. If I had just kept my distance, if I hadn’t let my conscience guide my actions—I wouldn’t be here, drowning in this chaos. But no, I couldn’t walk away; I had to help. Yet, deep down, I knew this was my fault. My choices led us to this very moment.

I didn’t blame Armando for getting shot; I only blamed myself for getting involved.

I let myself drive home, skipping work without a second thought—Barbra could handle it. But as I navigated the streets, each turn blurred into the next, my mind a tangled mess of regret and confusion. I barely registered the journey until I found myself parked in front of the apartment, the engine ticking softly in the stillness.

Dragging myself from the car, I trudged inside, my heart pounding with an anxious hope that he would be gone. The silence engulfed me, wrapping around my shoulders like a heavy shroud as I stepped into the empty living room. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, momentarily lifting the weight pressing down on me, but it was short-lived.

Then, from the kitchen, he emerged. Armando stood there, a glass of water in his hand, droplets of condensation pooling and dripping onto the linoleum floor—a stark contrast to the storm churning within me. His eyes widened in surprise, and then he offered a weak smile, but it did nothing to alleviate the knot tightening in my stomach.

He limped toward the couch, every movement a reminder of the fragility of life, of choices made and their bitter consequences. I dropped my purse with a thud, the sound echoing like a tolling bell in the oppressive silence. My instincts propelled me toward the love seat in the corner, my fingers brushing against the fabric as I attempted to steady my trembling hands. Desperation swelled within me, and I wiped my eyes on my scrub top, feeling the damp fabric cling to my skin.

Armando’s gaze shifted toward me, concern etched across his features. “What happened?” he asked, his voice wavering with unspoken fears. I leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of his question pressing heavily on my chest. The truth hovered just beneath the surface, ready to spill out, but all I could do was breathe, feeling the fragility of this moment hang in the air like a delicate thread, threatening to snap.

“Maya? Tell me what happened.”

I jolted at the sound of my name, a sudden reminder of how exposed I was. I hadn’t meant for him to find out—hadn’t wanted him to see the remnants of my life sprawled across our shared space, evidence of a fracture I couldn’t yet articulate. His hazel eyes, usually warm and inviting, now glimmered with an urgency that made my chest tighten.

I swallowed hard, searching for the right words, but all I found was silence. A tumult of thoughts raced through my mind, but I knew I wasn’t ready to lay them bare. He was fragile, still piecing himself back together, and I had no right to burden him with my chaos until he was whole again.

“Nothing… just my mother and... other issues,” I stammered, forcing a weak smirk that felt like a mask over a raging storm. I grabbed the remote, clicking the television on, desperate for the distraction to drown out the suffocating silence that threatened to engulf us both.

“Are you sure? You look like something really scared you. And your back—so I know you didn’t go to work.” His concern hung in the air, palpable and relentless, but I turned away from it, as I did with all questions I didn’t want to answer.

“Everything is fine. Just rest up,” I replied, flipping through N*****x in a futile attempt to escape. I finally settled on *Love Is Blind*, hoping the absurdity of reality TV could push my inner turmoil further into the shadows.

But deep down, I knew—everything is fine until it isn’t.