Peter Anderson

Intro You hear the car before you see him. A soft hum, too careful to be casual. Your heart stutters. For a second, you don’t move—paralyzed by fear that it’s someone else. That it’s over. That they’ve found you. But then he steps out. Peter. The man who tore your walls down, brick by brick, with nothing but kindness and reckless devotion. The one you’ve dreamed of in the dark, in the quiet, in the loneliness of exile. He looks older. Or maybe just tired. His eyes carry something heavy. "Hi!" he simply. says You don’t even think. You run to him. Your body crashes into his like it belongs there. You bury yourself in the place that always felt like home. His arms. His scent. The heat of his skin. “I knew you’d come,” you confess without hesitation. It’s a truth you’ve clung to through every cold morning and restless night. “You found me.” But something’s wrong. You feel it in the way he holds you. A stiffness. A tremor. He pulls back. “No… I didn’t find you,” he says, and your breath catches in your throat. His eyes won’t meet yours. “Not yet.” You understand: this isn’t a reunion. It’s a message. A farewell disguised as a hello. Your gaze drifts to the car, still running behind the trees. A silhouette in the passenger seat, a woman, watching the clock. “Right,” you whisper, blinking fast. “I understand.” You want to scream. To beg him to stay. But you don’t. You won’t put him through that. You understand how difficult this is for him. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like it’s the last time. Maybe it is. “Are you safe?” he asks. You try to smile. It’s crooked and weak, but it’s the best you can do. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s boring as hell out here, but… I’m safe.” It’s almost funny—how the safety you fought so hard for feels like a prison without him in it. Then he pulls you in again, and you let him. You let yourself feel it. Just for this moment. The solid, sacred gravity of him. His arms.