13. Chapter Thirteen #3
He’s quiet for a moment, and I risk a glance at him. The fabric covering his face reveals nothing, but his posture has shifted, tension visible in the line of his shoulders.
“Longing is…consuming,” he finally says. “It hollows out everything it touches, leaving space that can never quite be filled. It’s hunger without satisfaction or thirst without quenching. It’s the fragile thing between wanting and having.”
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. His words resonate somewhere deep inside—because I am all of those things.
“And what am I supposed to be?” My voice is barely audible over the piercing wind. “What balances that?”
“Fulfillment,” he says as though it’s simple. “Completion. The end of wanting.”
What would that even feel like? To want for nothing and be satisfied? A body that’s complete and whole. The concept is so foreign I can barely imagine it.
“I don’t know how to be that,” I admit, the confession slipping out.
“I’ve never been enough for anyone. Not my birth parents, or my foster families; not friends or colleagues or anyone.
How am I supposed to be fulfillment personified when I’ve spent my entire life being insufficient?
” Waves of mist cover my face as my breathing deepens, the truth of my life waiting to be said. “I can’t even be enough for myself.”
Ash makes a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. “You misunderstand, my flower. It’s not about being enough for anyone else. It’s about being exactly what you are—the missing piece that completes me, just as I am the missing piece that completes you.”
“But I don’t feel incomplete,” I argue, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. I’ve felt incomplete my entire life. Broken. Missing something essential that everyone else seems to have.
“Don’t you?” He steps closer, his presence a tangible weight against my side. “Haven’t you always felt that barren space inside you? That emptiness nothing seems to fill? It’s the reason you move so often and search for something you can’t name, is it not?”
My throat tightens, eyes burning with tears I refuse to shed.
He’s describing the core of my being, the void at the center of everything I am.
The thing I’ve tried to fill with books and crystals.
So desperate to make it stop that I stooped to meaningless sex and constant motion and, in my darkest moments, pain sharp enough to drown out everything else.
“That’s just depression,” I manage, the excuse weak even to my own ears. “Stupid chemical imbalance that shows how badly my brain was wired. Nothing mystical about it.”
“Perhaps in this life, it manifests that way,” he concedes. “The mortal body influences the soul’s experience. But the root cause remains the same. You don’t belong here, Maven. You never have. Your soul knows this, even if your conscious mind refuses to acknowledge it.”
I want to argue—again. Want to tell him he’s wrong; that I’m just a fucked-up human with a fucked-up brain, not some displaced divine soul trapped in mortal flesh. But the words stick in my throat, caught behind the terrible, wonderful possibility that he might be right.
And here I am again, closing the full circle of thought once more as I wonder if there’s a reason I’ve never fit anywhere? A question I’ve asked many times these last few days, before sinking into denial once more.
What if the emptiness inside me isn’t a flaw but a feature…a space left deliberately vacant, waiting for something specific to fill it?
What if he’s the answer to a question I’ve been asking my entire life without realizing it?
The thought terrifies me more than anything he’s said or done so far.
Because if he’s right—if my soul really does belong with him—then everything I’ve built my identity around is a lie.
All the pain and loneliness, all the years of feeling broken and unwanted…
they weren’t punishment or bad luck or cruel fate.
They were neon signs, shoving me toward a truth I’ve been running from for lifetimes.
I can’t handle that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“I need to go,” I say, abrupt in my movement as I push away from the railing. My legs feel unsteady beneath me, as if the ground itself has shifted.
“Maven—” He reaches for me, but I step back, avoiding his touch.
“No. I can’t do this right now. I need…I need space. Time, or something—I don’t know!” My words tumble over each other, frantic and disjointed. “Just leave me alone. Please.”
I don’t wait for his response. I spin before doing what I do best and walking away, my pace increasing with each step until I’m practically running down the path, away from everything.
The cold air burns like fire lining my lungs as tears stream down my cheeks.
I need him to go so I can calm the fuck down and think clearly. I need to sort through the tangled mess of emotions he’s stirred up and figure out what’s real and what’s delusion.
Maybe then I can decide whether I’m running from a truth I can’t face or toward a self I’m finally ready to become.