My words bring on the silence. I clutch the white teddy bear to my chest and hear my heart snap.
Sharply—like a splintered tree in the wake of a lightning bolt—before it splits in two.
If I were a tree, struck at the center and sliced open by a ray of light, I’d likely die from the impact. But I’m unfairly human, and that I know of, broken hearts don’t yet hold the power to end misery.
Every minute I lived without Tyler—from the start of my existence—turns into drops of liquid, accumulating in the corners of my eyes. I expel a lifetime of loneliness in the shape of tears, crying time out, as if the salt-laced water provides in its depths a miraculous power to heal.
And maybe it does.
Or maybe it’s the connection between Kace and me. The closeness. The undeniable science between two people who took love and created life from something so basic. Love-crazed scientists, mixing the breath of life with the kiss of death, and catalyzing alphabetic molecules to flip on their axis. M to W. Me to We.
He hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me onto his lap, my back flush against his bare chest. With both arms tightly wrapped around me, he lowers his forehead to my shoulder, and after a few minutes, the material of my oversized shirt dampens.
Cradled in his arms, I long for nothing more than to be we. Because, in his presence, I hate being me, alone.
“I read your letter.” His soft voice carries the power to blow through multiple layers of brick walls around my heart.
Through blurry eyes, I glance at the black notebook. The letter to the Bullet Man, evidence of my dark thoughts, but did it have to be one or the other? “I can explain. Nolan told me to write it.”
“I figured.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I’m not saying to escape—”
He shuffles me around, so my legs are on either side of his waist, sitting me on his thighs. At eye level, it’s hard to avoid the sadness in the ebony pools circled by his irises. They don’t sparkle anymore. They probably haven’t for a long time.
“Kace, I’m sorry if the letter—”
He drops a quick kiss to the tip of my nose, deafening my apology. “I want you to know, life without you doesn’t make sense. What I said at the hospital? I meant it. Please, don’t think I’ll be able to recuperate if you leave me, because I won’t. You keep me together. You think I’m strong because I surpassed Tyler’s death?”
He read the suicide note.
“You said I was strong, but I’m only strong because you make me that way. Every day I breathe knowing my son doesn’t. You confined me to this room … Do you think it’s easy to be here, in this room, where we lay on that bed, every morning and every night, planning for a future with a baby?
“That wall outside, the stuff in my office, it reminds me of why I need to suck up my pain every fucking morning and walk out there. For you. It’s always been for you.”
I hold on to him, drawing nothing from him. Instead, I keep my secrets deep inside, and for right now, because he needs me, I lead us both to the bed.
Between the cotton sheets, I become the girl in those photos. The one from the shrine in his office and the one who once shared the joys of a future, but now, also shares the burden of our present.
I wake up wanting to stay.
I almost forget the last few months. It feels too good—a good I don’t deserve. There’s too much hope in the little space between us, and the two seconds, between the twenty blinks a minute, threaten it.
He’s on the mend, defining his love without words and meaning every soft caress.
But there are too many definitions—too many promises.
Too many blinks.
Twenty opportunities to leave, each one tempting the goodbye that should’ve come five thousand blinks ago. We lie on our sides, facing each other, the crumpled sheets between us the only veil covering the surface of our skins. If he touches me again, I won’t resist, but I hate staying here and watching the dangerous thoughts whirl in his irises. With his guard down, those hopeful thoughts swarm around like fireflies at dusk, lighting the dark grooves of his chocolate eyes.
Luminescence. His love combines with his hope, illuminating the golden specks of his gaze. He waits for my fireflies to light up my eyes, and they’re there, but it’s hard to glow when submerged within so much darkness.
His hand cups my cheek, brushing my hair back, and gently urging me forward, closer to him and his lips. Tears well in my eyes. Like a current propelled by wind, I blink and blink, forcing the salty waves to crash on the shores of my eyeline. They trickle down my cheek, seeping into the grains of my pores and dampening my skin.
“Hey,” Kace says softly with his husky voice. The pad of his thumb soaks the uprush.
When the palm of his hand curves around my cheek and tilts it up to look at him, my body sighs. He begs to be let in, to deep dive into the perilous depths of my despair, and save me from the sadness crashing in on me. But the current is too strong, and I can’t risk losing him also.
In a trembling voice, I beg him, “Don’t…” My words die when they hit the air. Even I don’t know what I don’t want him to do. With eyes tight, I brace myself for his retreat, but the warmth of his body closes in on me, and before I know it, his breaths fall on my tear-laced lips, heating them with his exhales. My whole body shivers when the air recoils into his lungs. Out of instinct, or survival—I don’t know—my eyes gaze up at his to find the softest expression staring back at me.
Before he can sway the moment, I warn him with a little more oomph, “Don’t make this what it isn’t, Kace.” I’m weak and desperately wanting him to be enough, but life is too much. Living is overwhelming, and I can’t just block the past out.
But God, I miss feeling his love.
Selfishly, I cling.
“Stop making it what you think it is, Elle.” He wraps his arms around me and tightly encloses me within his embrace. “Stop wanting me not to love you.”
I cling to every fucking word and allow him to take my breath away. He can kill me alive because most of the time, I’m dead inside.
“Stop hanging on to reasons why we shouldn’t have a life together.” He drops a kiss to the top of my head. “We can still exist without Tyler.”
He’s wrong, but I give in and nod my head. The alarm clock goes off, reminding us of the world and obligations.
After shutting it off, he swivels on his back, bends his arm at the elbow, and tucks his hand behind his head. Placing my hand on his stomach, I trace the groves of his abs and abandon my broken heart.
Today—right now only—I can pretend to exist without the baby I lost.
I rest my head on his chest and press my ear to the dip at the center of his breastbone, listening to the familiar rhythm and letting it lull me into a false sense of security for just a little while longer.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks hesitantly, fearing my answer.
I rest my chin on his chest and gaze up at his beautiful face; it’s like I’m looking at him for the first time in months. I had slept well, something that hasn’t happened since I woke up at the hospital. “Maybe you were what was missing.”
His hand wraps around mine, and he twiddles with the diamond he placed on my finger six months ago. Staring at the ceiling, he shuts his eyes and says, “The wedding is in a few weeks.”