Chapter 8
We left before sunrise.
That decision wasn’t brave or planned or
cinematic—it was necessity, born from the way Kim had gone quiet
after my last words, the way his fingers loosened from mine just
enough to feel like a warning, the way the walls of my room suddenly
felt too thin to hold everything pressing in on us.
“I need to get out of here,” he said
finally, voice steady but distant. “Just for a little while.”
“Where?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Downtown.”
The word landed heavy between us.
Downtown Los Angeles wasn’t just a place—it
was noise and motion and anonymity, the opposite of the Valley where
everyone knew your parents’ business and remembered who you were
supposed to be. It was where people disappeared into crowds and came
back as someone else, or didn’t come back at all.
“Okay,” I said, without thinking. “Let’s
go.”
We moved quietly through the apartment, shoes
in hand, backpacks thrown together with the essentials—phone
chargers, a hoodie, Kim’s sketchbook, the folded drawing he’d
given me weeks ago tucked carefully into my pocket like a talisman.
My parents’ door stayed closed. The hallway light stayed off. Every
step felt like crossing another invisible line.
The drive was silent at first.
The freeway opened up before us like a promise
and a threat, lanes stretching endlessly under the pale wash of early
morning light. The city grew denser as we went, buildings rising,
graffiti blooming across concrete like declarations no one had asked
permission to make.
Kim stared out the window, jaw tight.
“Talk to me,” I said gently.
He exhaled slowly. “The message,” he said.
“The one they posted.”
I nodded. “You said someone was threatening
you.”
He swallowed. “It was from a guy named Jae.
We used to go to the same art program when we were younger. He…
didn’t like that I left.”
“Left how?”
Kim hesitated, then met my eyes. “I reported
him.”
The words sent a chill through me.
“For what?”
“For stealing students’ work and selling it
online under his own name,” Kim said quietly. “He got kicked out.
Lost scholarships. He blamed me.”
My chest tightened. “Kim.”
“He said if I ever tried to make a name for
myself, he’d ruin me,” Kim continued, voice flat now, like he’d
said it too many times to himself already. “I thought he was
bluffing.”
“And Hannah?” I asked.
Kim’s mouth twisted. “She messaged me weeks
ago. Asked about my art. About you. I didn’t answer much. But when
the video went viral… she knew who to sell the story to. She
connected him to that account.”
Rage burned hot and immediate in my chest. “She
used you.”
“She used us,”
Kim corrected softly.
Downtown swallowed us whole.
We parked near Grand Park, the city already
awake now—sirens in the distance, vendors setting up carts, people
moving with purpose and exhaustion. The courthouse loomed nearby,
massive and indifferent, and something about its presence made
everything feel more real, more permanent.
Kim led me through streets I didn’t know,
past murals and coffee shops and stairwells that seemed to disappear
into the buildings themselves, until we reached a rooftop parking
structure overlooking the city.
From up there, Los Angeles looked endless.
“Come here,” Kim said.
We sat on the warm concrete, backs against a
low wall, the city spread out beneath us like a living thing. Wind
tugged gently at our clothes. Somewhere below, music drifted
upward—something soft and nostalgic, like it had been playing for
decades.
“I come here when it gets too loud,” Kim
said. “It reminds me how small the noise actually is.”
I looked at him—really looked at him—and
felt the weight of everything he’d been carrying alone.
“You don’t have to run,” I said. “Not
from me.”
He turned toward me, eyes searching. “I’m
not.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He froze.
I watched his face as he read, watched the
color drain from it.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
A new post from the gossip account.
Not a video this time.
A location tag.
Downtown LA – Live.
Below it, a blurry photo taken from a distance.
Two figures on a rooftop.
Us.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
“They followed us,” I whispered.
Kim shook his head, already standing. “No.
Someone tipped them off.”
Footsteps echoed from the stairwell.
Voices.
Laughter.
Phones out.
“Moon,” Kim said urgently, grabbing my
hand. “We can’t let them turn this into something ugly.”
“What do we do?” I asked, adrenaline
flooding my system.
Kim took a breath, then did something I didn’t
expect.
He stepped forward.
Out into the open.
Toward the cameras.
I stared at him, stunned.
“What are you—”
“I’m done hiding,” he said, voice calm
and certain. “If they want a story, we’ll tell it.”
The crowd gathered quickly—phones raised,
whispers spreading, the city watching through screens. I felt
exposed, terrified, alive in a way I had never been before.
Kim turned to me, eyes steady. “Trust me?”
Every instinct screamed fear.
But I nodded.
He laced his fingers through mine and faced the
cameras.
“My name is Kim,” he said clearly. “I’m
an artist. I work hard. I tell the truth. And I love him.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
I felt the weight of the city shift, just
slightly.
“And if you want drama,” Kim continued,
voice firm, “look somewhere else. Because this—” he squeezed my
hand “—is just love.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the questions came.
The shouts.
The chaos.
But something had already changed.
Because we weren’t running anymore.
And somewhere in the crowd, I saw Hannah’s
face—furious, calculating, already realizing she’d lost control
of the narrative.
My phone buzzed.
A message from my mother.
Just one line.
Come home. We need to talk.
I looked at Kim.
The city roared around us.
And for the first time, I felt ready to answer.
