The Butterfly and The Moth

46

Silently, we sat, our gazes locked onto each other until Sterling pulled the car out into the street. 

Each streetlight we passed under cast alternating shadows and light across Sterling's face, mirroring the storm of emotions churning within me. But he was still there, by my side, and I found solace in that.

"Dahlia," Sterling murmured, his voice soft but laced with a note of determination. The glow from the dashboard cast across his face, highlighting the furrowed brow and the tight set of his jaw. He was upset, that much was clear. But he was here, with me.

"I..." he began, hesitating just slightly. "I'm sorry that I asked you that. I want you to know, it's not because I believed Daisy. I just needed you to say it, because I don't know what's going to happen next, but... I don't think this is going to just go away."

His apology hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. I blinked away the stinging in my eyes, focusing on the faint outlines of the passing landscape, blurred by the darkness of the night.

"No, it's... it's okay, Sterling," I whispered, my voice a mere ghost of a sound.

I could feel his gaze on me, those grey eyes filled with a mix of worry and resolve. His next words were still hesitant, cautious, as if he was treading on thin ice.

"Dahlia, you never really... told me what happened," he said softly, his gaze now fixed on the desolate road ahead. "I mean, I pieced things together. I gave you the words when you... when you couldn't find them. But... I think it might be time. Time for you to tell me, tell me what really happened that night. Tell me what Erik did to you."

His words felt like a punch in the gut. The icy fear that had been kept at bay came rushing back in a tidal wave. The thought of having to relive that night, to narrate it in excruciating detail... It was terrifying.

The silence that followed was deafening, my heart pounding in my chest. I could feel my breath hitch in my throat. The memories of that night, the ones I had so meticulously buried, threatened to claw their way to the surface.

"Dahlia," Sterling's voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. "Hey, look at me."

I watched as his hand, resting on the gear stick, flexed once. Twice. It was a telltale sign, one I had noticed over time, that he was wrestling with something. With his free hand, he gently picked up my own from my lap where it lay clenched.

There was a tenderness in his touch, a carefulness as if he was holding something incredibly delicate. His fingers, calloused and warm, enveloped my own, his thumb gently tracing the knuckles, a rhythmic motion that seemed to beat in time with my racing heart.

His hand was larger than mine, a contrast to the softness of my own. It enveloped mine, a symbol of protection, comfort and a promise that spoke volumes. It was a touch filled with a kind of understanding, a silent reassurance that spoke louder than words ever could.

I turned to him, my eyes filled with the raw fear that I had been trying to hide. His gaze met mine, a mirror of my pain yet filled with an unwavering resolve.

"I won't force you to share anything you're not ready to," he said, his tone firm yet tender. "But, Dahlia, remember, we're in this together. You don't have to carry this burden alone. I'm here for you. I told you that the morning after I found out, and I'll tell you every day if you need to hear it."

His words washed over me like a soothing balm, his commitment a lifeline in my sea of uncertainty. My throat tightened as I tried to swallow the lump forming there.

"Sterling," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I... I'm tired."

His hand came up to gently brush a loose strand of hair from my face, his touch a gentle anchor.