Mina and Mark Chapter 13

Chapter 13: The Illusion of Safe

They crossed the border without ceremony.
No questions. No alarms. Just a sign and a subtle loosening in the air, as if the road itself exhaled.
Mina felt it first. Not relief exactly. More a thinning of pressure. Like a headache easing enough to remind you how much it had hurt.
Spain arrived in colour. Warmer tones. Dustier light. Hills that didn’t pretend to be tidy. The landscape felt less curated, more forgiving. Less interested in watching.
Mark did not relax.
His shoulders stayed high. His jaw set. He drove like someone negotiating with the road, not trusting it to behave. Every lay-by felt like a decision point. Every passing car a test.
They stopped just outside Girona to refuel. Mina went inside for water and something solid to eat. Mark stayed with the van.
When she came back, he was standing a little too still, phone in his hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
He looked at her, then down again. “Nothing.”
She didn’t move. She waited.
“I keep thinking I recognise people,” he said eventually. “Then realising I don’t. Or maybe I do. And that’s the problem.”
She set the water on the bonnet. “Do they recognise you?”
“No.”
“Then we keep going.”
He nodded, grateful for the simplicity of that rule.
They chose L’Estartit in the end. Not because it felt safest, but because it felt small enough to read. A place where patterns would show themselves quickly. Fishing boats. Tourist shops closed for the season. A beach that curved inward, like it was holding something.
Their accommodation was plain. White walls. Tile floors. A balcony that looked out over the harbour. Nothing to hide behind. Nothing pretending to be more than it was.
That helped.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed while Mina unpacked. He watched her movements with a focus that bordered on hunger, as if memorising her might anchor him.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I’m listening,” he replied. “Trying to tell what’s real.”
She crossed to him. Took his hands. They were warm. Steady enough.
“Then start here,” she said. “This is real.”
He held on like he might fall through the mattress otherwise.
Night came gently. No sirens. No footsteps. Just the sound of water shifting against boats and the faint echo of voices drifting up from somewhere below.
They ate on the balcony. Bread. Cheese. Tomatoes that tasted like they had grown under supervision from the sun itself. Mark managed a small smile at that.
Later, when the dark had settled properly, Mina checked the locks. Once. Then she stopped.
“This isn’t a siege,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I know,” Mark replied. “My body doesn’t.”
They lay down with the balcony doors open. Let the sounds in. Let the night exist without trying to control it.
Sleep came in fragments. For both of them.
At some point, Mina woke to Mark sitting upright, breathing fast, eyes fixed on the far wall.
“Talk to me,” she said quietly.
“There’s a gap,” he whispered.
“A gap where?”
“In my memory. It’s like something’s been lifted out. Clean. Careful.”
She reached for him. He didn’t pull away.
“Gaps don’t mean guilt,” she said. “They mean strain.”
“What if they mean permission?” he asked. “What if my head lets things in because it thinks they belong?”
“That’s not how it works,” she said. “And even if it were, you’re not alone in there.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. The way people do when they are deciding whether to stay alive.
“Promise me something,” he said.
“What?”
“If I start to go. Properly. You don’t argue with me about it.”
She didn’t answer straight away.
“Promise me you’ll act,” he added. “Not hope.”
She nodded once. “And you promise me you’ll tell me when it starts. Not after.”
He closed his eyes. “I can try.”
It was not a comforting promise. But it was an honest one.
Morning came warmer this time. Thicker. The light poured in like it intended to stay.
From the balcony, the sea looked harmless. Blue and flat and unbothered.
Mina stood there with coffee cooling in her hands and understood something she hadn’t wanted to before.
Safety was not a place.
It was a moving target.
And knowing too much did not protect you from it.
Behind her, Mark slept again. Shallow, but steady.
For now, that would have to be enough.
Mina decided not to wake him.
Sleep, even thin and fragile, felt earned. She moved quietly, slipping on her shoes, pocketing her keys. The town was already awake, the day busier than it looked from the balcony.
Outside, L’Estartit smelled alive. Salt. Diesel. Citrus split open in crates. The market was a riot of colour and noise. Fruit piled high and glossy. Meat hanging heavy in the heat. Flowers bleeding scent into the air. It should have felt comforting. Ordinary.
She bought cheese. Bread. A long French stick still warm in the middle. A bottle of wine she didn’t recognise but trusted anyway. The bag weighed enough to feel grounding in her hand.
On the way back, she took the longer route. Habit. Caution pretending to be sightseeing.
That was when she saw him.
He stood too close to the van. Too deliberate. Dark-haired. Tall. Built like purpose rather than accident. He glanced around, then tried the passenger door. Once. Then again, testing.
Mina stepped back fast, heart slamming, and pressed herself behind a tree. From there, she watched him pull out his phone. He spoke briefly, eyes never leaving the van, then slipped the phone away and started towards the building.
Towards Mark.
Her mouth went dry.
She dialled Mark’s number. Once. Again. Nothing. The call rang out into silence she could almost hear.
The man was closer now. Too close.
Mina didn’t think anymore. Thinking was a luxury.
She dropped the bag. Cheese rolled free. The bottle knocked once against the pavement but didn’t break. She broke into a run, keys clenched between her fingers, breath tearing at her throat.
This wasn’t about certainty.
This wasn’t about proof.
It was about timing.
And she was running out of it.