Sasha shifts slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she's weighing the significance of my words. I can feel her hesitation, that small flicker of uncertainty in her expression. It mirrors the one deep within me. But then, something hardens in her gaze—a resolve, perhaps—and the tension between us sharpens.
"We're not like them, are we?" she finally says, her voice barely louder than a breath. It's not really a question. She knows the answer, and so do I.
I shake my head slowly. "No," I say, my voice steady, though I can feel the weight of the truth behind the word. It's more than just an admission. It's an acknowledgment of something I've known for a long time but never said out loud. We aren't like the others. We never were.
Sasha lets out a low, almost imperceptible sigh, as if the answer is both a relief and a burden. She leans back on the bench, her fingers grazing the cold stone beneath her as she stares up at the canopy of trees above us. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casting soft patterns of shadow and light across her face, but it does nothing to soften the darkness that seems to surround her. Or maybe it's the darkness between us that's spreading, like a slow, inevitable tide.
"What do you think happens next?" I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them. It's a genuine question, and one I'm not sure either of us knows the answer to. Whatever this is, whatever we are... it's heading somewhere. And it feels inevitable, like we're on a path we can't turn back from, even if we wanted to.
Sasha turns her head toward me, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but it's not a happy smile. It's something else. Something darker. "That depends," she says softly. "How far are you willing to go?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. How far am I willing to go? I've asked myself that question more times than I can count. Each time, the answer is always the same: As far as I need to. But here, now, with Sasha sitting beside me, it feels different. It feels like a challenge. And I don't back down from challenges.
"As far as it takes," I reply, my voice steady but low.
Her smile deepens, though it's tinged with something almost sad. "I thought so," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
We sit in silence again, the weight of our words settling between us. The park around us is quiet, almost unnervingly so. I can hear the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, the occasional distant laughter from students still lingering on the outskirts of the park, but none of it feels real. Not in this moment.
There's a shift in Sasha's posture then, a subtle one, but I notice it. She sits up a little straighter, her fingers tracing the edge of the bench absently, as if she's trying to ground herself. "I didn't bring you here just to talk, you know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, but there's a sharpness to it now.
I turn my head toward her, my curiosity piqued. "Then why did you bring me here?"
Her eyes flicker toward mine, and for the first time, I see something in them that I hadn't noticed before. Fear. It's faint, but it's there, buried beneath layers of confidence and control. She hesitates for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let me in on whatever secret she's holding.
"There's something you need to see," she says finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "Something I've been meaning to show someone for a long time."
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. "What is it?"
Sasha stands then, her movements graceful yet deliberate. She looks down at me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of vulnerability cross her features, but it's gone as quickly as it came. "Come with me," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I stand without hesitation, following her lead as she moves through the clearing and deeper into the trees. The sunlight fades as we walk, the dense canopy above us blocking out most of the light. The air grows cooler, the scent of damp earth and pine filling my senses as we move farther from the familiar paths of the park. I have no idea where she's taking me, but I follow her anyway. There's something in the way she walks, the way she moves with purpose, that tells me this is important.
After several minutes of walking, we reach a small, hidden path. It's barely noticeable, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, but Sasha steps onto it without hesitation, like she's been here a hundred times before. I follow her, my footsteps silent on the soft earth. The trees around us grow denser, the light dimming even further until it feels like we're walking in twilight.
Finally, the path opens up into another clearing. This one is different from the last. It's smaller, more enclosed, with thick trees forming a natural wall around it. In the center of the clearing is an old, weathered stone structure—almost like a shrine, though it's been worn down by time and neglect. Vines crawl up its sides, and the stone is cracked in places, but there's something eerily beautiful about it.
Sasha stops in front of the structure, her back to me. She's silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the stone, her fingers tracing the edges of one of the cracks. I can feel the tension radiating from her, the heaviness of whatever she's about to reveal weighing on her shoulders.
"This place," she begins, her voice barely above a whisper, "it's been here for as long as I can remember. I found it when I was a kid. I used to come here to escape... everything. The world. People. Myself." She pauses, her fingers still tracing the stone, before finally turning to face me. "But it's more than that. It's... a reminder."
"A reminder of what?" I ask, my voice quiet, careful not to break whatever spell has settled over us.
Sasha's eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see the depth of the darkness she's been carrying. "A reminder that we're never really free," she says softly. "No matter how much we try to escape it, there's always something—someone—pulling us back into the darkness."
Her words hit me harder than I expected, resonating deep within me. She's right. I've felt it, too—the constant pull of the darkness, the passenger that never leaves, no matter how hard I try to suppress it. It's always there, lurking, waiting.
I step closer to her, my eyes never leaving hers. "You feel it, too," I say, the realization sinking in. "The darkness."
She nods slowly, her gaze never wavering. "It's always been there. But I've learned to live with it. To control it." Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "Most of the time."
The weight of her words settles over me, and for a moment, I feel an unexpected sense of relief. She understands. She knows what it's like to carry this burden, to live with something that's always threatening to consume you.
"I thought I was the only one," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. It's strange, saying it out loud, admitting to someone else that there's a part of me that's always fighting to break free. But with Sasha, it feels... right.
She smiles, but it's a sad smile, tinged with understanding. "We're never the only ones," she says softly. "There are more of us out there, living in the shadows. We just hide it well."
I nod, the truth of her words settling in my chest like a heavy weight. We hide it well. We have to. If people knew, if they saw what we really are, they wouldn't understand. They'd fear us. Hate us. Try to stop us.
Sasha turns back to the stone structure, her fingers brushing against the vines that have grown over it. "This place... it's a reminder that we're not alone. That there's a reason we're like this. A purpose."
"A purpose?" I ask, the skepticism clear in my voice. I've never believed in destiny or purpose. It's all just chaos, random and meaningless. At least, that's what I've always told myself.
But Sasha shakes her head, her expression serious. "Not destiny.
Sasha's fingers trail along the rough stone of the shrine, her touch gentle but deliberate, as if the structure holds the answers to everything she's just said. I watch her, waiting for her to continue, but she remains silent, her eyes tracing the cracks in the stone. Her mention of a "purpose" lingers in the air between us, heavy with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to confront.
"A purpose?" I repeat, my voice sharper now, more insistent. "What do you mean by that?"
She turns her head slightly, glancing at me over her shoulder. For a moment, I catch a flicker of something in her eyes—something like uncertainty, or maybe fear—but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. She lets out a slow breath, turning fully to face me.
"We weren't born into this darkness by accident," she says, her voice quiet but firm. "There's a reason we carry it. A reason we can control it—most of the time, at least."
Her words hit me in a way I didn't expect, and I feel the slow, creeping stir of the passenger inside me. It always reacts to talk like this, as if it senses something deeper, something I haven't yet fully grasped. But purpose? I've spent my whole life avoiding that kind of thinking. To accept that there's a purpose behind what I am—that means I'd have to face the darkness more directly. It means admitting that it's not just some uncontrollable, chaotic force that I keep buried. It's part of me. And that thought terrifies me more than anything.
"You sound like you've thought about this a lot," I say, keeping my tone neutral, though I can't entirely suppress the edge of skepticism in my voice.
Sasha's smile is faint, almost wistful. "I've had a lot of time to think," she says. "And a lot of reasons to."
I narrow my eyes, studying her more closely. There's something she's not telling me, something deeper than the vague philosophy she's hinting at. "What happened?" I ask, stepping closer to her, the curiosity gnawing at me. "What brought you to this place? To... this belief?"
Sasha hesitates, and for a moment, I think she won't answer. But then she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of whatever she's been carrying is finally catching up to her.
"I lost someone," she says quietly, her eyes dropping to the ground. "Someone who... understood me. The way you seem to understand."
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but I manage to keep my expression impassive. Inside, though, my mind races. Lost someone? I hadn't expected this. It explains the sadness I've sensed beneath her confidence, the darkness that seems to follow her like a shadow.
"Who?" I ask, my voice softer now.
Sasha's lips press together for a moment, as if she's gathering her thoughts. Then, she looks up, meeting my eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze. "My brother," she says. "He... he was like us. He carried the same darkness, the same... passenger, as you call it."
I feel a jolt of surprise at her words, but I don't react outwardly. Her brother. Someone else who knew what this was like. It's strange to think that there could be others—other people out there fighting the same inner battle, hiding the same dark truth from the world.
"What happened to him?" I ask, though I already have an idea. The passenger isn't something you can just live with forever. Sooner or later, it consumes you, unless you're careful. I've always known that.
Sasha's eyes darken, her expression hardening. "He... lost control," she says, her voice tight. "One day, it just... it took over. He wasn't himself anymore. And when that happens..." She trails off, shaking her head, as if the memory is too painful to revisit fully.
I nod slowly, understanding more than I want to admit. The passenger is a constant threat, always waiting for a moment of weakness. I've felt its pull so many times, especially in those quiet moments, when the world around me fades, and it's just me and the darkness. I've managed to hold it back, to keep it under control, but I know how close I've come to losing that fight.
"What did you do?" I ask, my voice low.
Sasha looks at me, her expression unreadable. "I didn't have a choice," she says quietly. "I had to stop him. Before he... before he hurt anyone else."
Her words hang in the air, and I can see the weight of them on her face. She's not just talking about her brother losing control—she's talking about what she had to do to stop him. The unspoken truth is clear: she killed him. She had to.
There's a long silence between us, the gravity of what she's just revealed settling over both of us like a thick, oppressive fog. I can feel the passenger stirring inside me, restless, as if it's reacting to her words, to the knowledge that someone else has faced this same battle and lost.
"How do you live with that?" I ask, my voice quieter now, more vulnerable than I intended.
Sasha's expression softens slightly, but there's still a hardness in her eyes. "You don't," she says simply. "You just... keep moving forward. Because if you stop, if you let yourself think about it too much, you'll lose control too. And then it's over."
Her words resonate with me in a way I didn't expect. Keep moving forward. It's what I've always done, isn't it? Keep going, keep pretending, keep manipulating the people around me to maintain the illusion of control. It's the only way to survive when you have something like this inside you.
But now, standing here with Sasha, I realize that maybe there's more to it than just survival. Maybe there's something deeper, something that connects us, the people who carry this darkness. It's not just about keeping the passenger at bay—it's about finding a way to live with it. To control it without letting it consume us.
Sasha turns back to the shrine, her fingers tracing the cracks in the stone again. "This place," she says softly, "it reminds me of that. Of the choice we have. We can let the darkness control us, or we can learn to control it."
I stare at her, my mind racing. Control. It's something I've always prided myself on—my ability to manipulate situations, to manipulate people, all while keeping the passenger locked away. But it's never felt like real control. It's always been a delicate balance, a constant fight to keep the darkness from spilling out.
And now, hearing Sasha talk about her brother, about what she had to do, I realize how fragile that control really is.
"What if you can't control it?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. It's a fear I've never spoken out loud before, but standing here with Sasha, it feels like the right question to ask.
Sasha's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see the same fear reflected in her gaze. "Then you make sure it doesn't hurt anyone else," she says quietly. "No matter what it takes."
Her words chill me to the core, but I know she's right. If the passenger ever takes full control, if I lose myself to the darkness, there's only one option left. And it's not one I want to think about.
Sasha steps closer to me, her expression softening. "But you're stronger than that," she says, her voice firm. "I can see it. You've kept it in check this long. You can keep going."
I want to believe her. I want to believe that I'm strong enough to keep the darkness at bay, to keep living in this delicate balance. But after hearing her story, after seeing what happened to her brother, I'm not so sure anymore.
"What if you're wrong?" I ask, my voice quieter now, almost defeated.
Sasha reaches out, placing a hand on my arm, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Then you do what you have to," she says softly. "And I'll be there to help you."
There's something in her voice, something in the way she says it, that sends a strange warmth through me. It's been so long since I've felt anything like that—any sense of connection, of understanding—that it takes me a moment to process it. But as I stand there, staring into Sasha's eyes, I realize that maybe I don't have to do this alone anymore.
Maybe, for the first time, there's someone who understands.
And as that thought settles in my mind, I feel the weight of the passenger inside me shift, just slightly, as if it too is recognizing the change. Maybe this darkness, this constant battle, doesn't have to be fought in isolation.
Maybe Sasha is right. Maybe we can learn to live with it. Together.
I don't say anything else. There's nothing more to say. We stand there in the quiet, the shadows of the trees closing in around us, the air thick with unspoken promises and shared burdens.
Whatever happens next, I know one thing for sure: this is just the beginning.