I don’t know what he did before or after the moment our lives collided on that highway. I only know the way he steadied my shaking hands, how he kept asking our names like an anchor, how he refused to leave until the paramedics took over. The broadcasts never mention that night. They don’t talk about the way he knelt in broken glass, or how his voice didn’t crack once while mine splintered into panic. Instead, they loop his worst angles, his hardest stare, the single version of him that fits their narrative. I live with the contradiction they can’t air: that a man branded a predator once held my fear together with nothing but words. Maybe both stories are true. Maybe that’s the terror—that goodness and guilt can inhabit the same body, and we’re left alone with the parts that don’t fit the verdict.
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