Cliffside Confessions

The cliffs looked different at night.

By day, they were all drama: sunlight blazing on white rock, the sea below a violent blue that made tourists lean over the guardrails and gasp. But tonight, the Pacific was black glass, broken only by white caps that flashed like sparks in the dark. The air was calmer now, cooler, the kind of stillness that followed a storm.

They parked side by side on the turnout, engines ticking as they cooled, headlights cutting off until only moonlight silvered the hoods. Moonlight softened the Roma's curves, the salt mist turning its paint almost liquid in the dark. Beside it, the AMG GT still radiated the faint heat of the drive, a quiet presence rather than a roar. She leaned back against the driver’s door, barefoot, jacket wrapped loosely around her shoulders. He stayed quiet for a while, elbows resting on the rail, gaze pinned to the horizon like he was listening for something out there.

When he spoke, his voice carried low, as if the cliffs themselves might overhear.

“You run from things too?”

The words landed sharper than expected. She almost laughed, almost deflected, but the night was too still for that. Instead, she took a breath and let the silence stretch, her pulse too loud in her ears.

Always, she thought. Running from jobs that caged her, from conversations that pressed too close, from parties where she smiled until her face hurt. Running until the road was the only language she trusted.

The Roma carried her through every one of those escapes, its hum the only witness to versions of herself she left behind.

“Yes,” she said finally, softer than she meant to. “Always.”

He turned then, leaning one shoulder against the rail, studying her like she’d just confirmed something he’d already suspected.

“I figured.”

The words should have stung, but they didn’t. There was no judgment in them. Only recognition was there, like seeing her reflection in another set of glass.

They fell quiet again, the waves below crashing in their own slow rhythm. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, though the air wasn’t cold. Vulnerability had its own chill.

After a moment, he reached across the space between them. It wasn't sudden grab, not a demand, just the steady offer of his hand, palm up, waiting. She hesitated, staring at it as though it were a language she wasn’t fluent in anymore. Then, carefully, she placed her hand in his.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sparks flew, no universe shifted. But the steadiness of it, the quiet, unshakable weight of connection, felt like something more honest than fireworks ever could.

They stood like that until the waves blurred into white noise and the moon climbed higher. Not talking. Not needing to. Her hand in his, her pulse finally easing, the road behind them for once not demanding they move.

When she finally let go, it wasn’t to leave. It was simply to reach for her keys, sliding into the car, the ritual thud of the door grounding her again.

He started his engine a beat after hers.

Moonlight caught his car in her mirror, their silhouettes slipping into motion like a pair long overdue.

This time, neither of them was running. Not from the cliffs. Not from the silence.

And maybe.

Just maybe.

Not from each other.