Sasha stepped toward the car, her shoulders sagging, eyes downcast. She sank into the passenger seat, her face pale and hollow from the weight of recent events. She was visibly shaken, her entire body trembling.
Silent tears had been streaming down her cheeks during the walk, but now, with no one around to witness, they broke loose fully. A deep, guttural sob escaped her—one she had been holding back all along.
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, extending it toward her without a word.
She didn't hesitate. With a fragile, trembling hand, she accepted it, clutching the soft fabric tightly as her sobs intensified.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, though it wasn't clear if she was apologizing to me or simply speaking to herself. The grief had overtaken her entirely, leaving her raw and exposed.
Again, she wept—bitterness pouring out, each tear a reflection of the heartbreak she couldn't contain any longer. I just sat there, silent, letting her cry, offering her what little comfort I could in the quiet presence.
The car hummed softly as I turned the key in the ignition, the sound grounding the quiet that had fallen between us.
The streets of Dolores were narrow and dimly lit, full of worn-out buildings and faded signs, shadows flickering in the headlights. The faint sound of Sasha's sobs lingered in the still air, soft but relentless, cutting through the silence like a constant reminder of what had just transpired.
I didn't know how to comfort her—not in a way that felt genuine, at least. I was never good at that kind of thing. So I simply started the engine, letting it pull us forward, the tires crunching lightly against the dirty, cracked pavement beneath us.
Sasha sat silently beside me, crumpling the handkerchief in her palm. Her fingers tightened on the fabric, twisting it into a tight ball, then smoothing it out again—each movement deliberate, maybe even angry. She finally set it down on her lap, though her gaze remained fixed on it, as though it carried the weight of everything she couldn't say out loud.
"You think?" she muttered suddenly, her voice low and sharp. "Love is a sin?"
I glanced toward her for a brief moment, eyes flickering toward the side of her face, the tears glistening on her cheeks. For a second, I hesitated—unsure how to answer without sounding hollow or dismissive. I focused on the road again, taking a sharp turn that jolted the car slightly, causing her to shift against the seat.
"I can't say," I responded carefully, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. "I don't have an answer to that."
Sasha let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Being born as a woman is a sin," she continued, almost as if she were repeating something someone else had told her, something she couldn't shake. "That's what Dolores always said."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, considering her words for a beat too long. Maybe she wasn't entirely wrong.
Not just as a woman… but as a human. Sometimes, I personally hated the idea of being forced into the world against my will, into a world we didn't ask for, felt like the greatest sin of all. The weight of it pressed down on me too—this feeling of helplessness, of being shaped by forces beyond our control.
"Why?" I finally spoke, my voice low, trying to understand her anguish. "Why does everything have to fall on a woman? Why do we carry it all?"
Her eyes burned with a quiet fire as she turned toward me. "Because no one else will," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "If women started fighting back, the whole world would fall apart. Men couldn't survive without us."
A grim smile tugged at the corner of my lips, though it didn't feel joyful. "Honestly, if women started avenging men, there wouldn't be much left."
A heavy silence settled between us once more—an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight those words carried, the truth they hinted at. The injustice. The burden. The overwhelming sense that the world had been built on rules, on suffering, that didn't seem to belong to anyone equally.
Sasha folded her arms tightly across her chest, staring out the window now, the tears slowing but the tension in her body remaining. I didn't say anything more, letting the quiet stretch between us, giving her space to let the emotions settle.
But I knew—there was a storm brewing in her. And I could feel it simmering inside me too.
Sasha leaned back in her seat, her gaze fixed out the window, distant and hollow. The dim streetlights flickered outside, casting shadows over her face as she spoke in a bitter, almost resigned tone.
"Dolores said she went through so much post partum." she began, her voice quiet but heavy with weight. "Nobody wanted to help her. Abandoned—by friends, by the colony. Everyone turned their backs on her." She shook her head slowly, the words dripping with sorrow and disbelief. "And yet… no one ever questioned the man. Why? Because he's a man. Men do that kind of thing all the time—it's just in their nature, isn't it?"
Her words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. The bitterness in her voice made my jaw tighten, the resentment clear in every syllable.
"You know? Dolores even wanted to do something terrible.," she paused for a moment and said, "But the doctors didn't allow because she passed the month."
Things just became more terrible terrible.
"Noah Dawson is dead," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "Can we not blame the dead now?" I tried to keep my tone neutral, though it quickly sharpened into something defensive. I didn't want to defend him—not really. But that instinct—always needing to stand up for the man—betrayed me, like it always did.
Sasha turned toward me, her expression cold and unyielding. "Why not? It's always easier to blame the dead, isn't it?" Her voice was quieter now, but no less fierce. "No one questions what happens once they're gone. It's always someone else's fault. But while they're alive—while they have a chance to fix things—nobody lifts a finger."
Her gaze flicked away again, back to the window, and I could feel the weight of her words hanging in the space between us. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken truths, with the lingering ghosts of pain we both carried. I didn't know what to say—whether to argue, to justify, or to just sit in the silence with her.
"I don't know if it's always that simple," I finally muttered, my voice quieter now, less sure. "But… some things shouldn't be ignored."
Sasha didn't respond right away. She just stared ahead, lost in her own thoughts, the distant light flickering across her face. The quiet settled again, but it wasn't peaceful. It was heavy—like the weight of everything left unsaid.