The door slammed behind Luca, but his presence clung to the room like smoke. Lina stood frozen, the echo of his words still ricocheting inside her skull.
"I covered for you because I thought you'd already punished yourself enough."
She sank into the kitchen chair, her breath catching in short, shallow bursts. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from fury, disbelief, the betrayal that came from someone who'd once brushed her hair back while she cried.
The storm outside was growing, slapping against the windows, wind pushing at the shutters like impatient hands.
Milo entered quietly. He'd been outside. Listening.
Lina didn't look up.
"Did you know?" she asked, voice barely more than air.
He closed the door behind him. "No. I knew he was lying about something, but I didn't know what."
She stared at the wood grain on the table. "He watched me fall apart. He watched the world think I killed Theo."
"And he let them," Milo said softly. "Because it was easier than telling the truth."
Lina turned toward him. "No. He did it because he thought I did it too."
Milo moved closer, but didn't reach for her. "And did you?"
She shook her head, slowly. "I remember now. Not everything. But enough. The fight, the storm, him falling. I didn't push him. I didn't pull him in either. He slipped."
Milo sat across from her. The space between them was charged, raw.
"I didn't mean to lie," she said, voice cracking. "I genuinely didn't know. But some part of me must have suspected. That's why I couldn't write. That's why I came back here. It's like my body remembered even when my mind didn't."
They sat in silence, the only sound the slow roll of thunder in the hills.
Finally, Milo spoke. "Do you feel better? Now that you know?"
Lina laughed—sharp and humorless. "No. I feel like I've been handed a weapon and told to swallow it."
Milo leaned forward. "You're not her anymore, Lina. The woman who let people tell her who she was."
"No," she agreed. "Now I know exactly who I am. I'm the woman who watched a man die and walked away bleeding. I'm the woman whose best friend let her believe she might be a murderer because it suited his narrative."
"You're also the woman who came back," he said, quieter. "The woman who demanded answers. Who held the match to the dark."
Her eyes met his. "That doesn't mean I deserve to be forgiven."
"Maybe not," Milo said. "But you deserve to understand. And to decide what happens next."
Lina stood slowly. Her legs felt hollow beneath her, as if her body wasn't entirely convinced she was safe now. She walked to the window. The sea below roared, the waves colliding like truths too long held back.
"He loved me in the way people love broken things," she said. "Carefully. But always from a distance. As if afraid I might cut him."
"And did you?"
"No. He cut himself. And then blamed me for bleeding."
Milo crossed the room. He stood close, not touching, just there.
"What about me?" he asked. "Am I just another man trying to understand a woman he'll never fully reach?"
She turned to face him. "Maybe. But you didn't flinch when I told you the ugliest parts. You didn't try to fix them either."
"I couldn't," he said. "And I didn't want to. I just wanted to see you."
Lina exhaled. It wasn't relief. Not resolution. But a kind of release.
"You should go write," he said gently.
She hesitated. "What if it's all still inside me? The pain. The doubt."
Milo looked at her, steady. "Then bleed it out on the page. That's what writers do, isn't it?"
She nodded, slowly. "Yeah. That's what we do."
And this time, when she walked toward her room, she didn't feel like she was fleeing anything. She felt like she was finally turning around to face it.