27. Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Her smile is tentative but genuine, reaching her eyes. “Hey back.”
We both stare at each other and it feels like there are a thousand unspoken words swimming between us as memories from last night’s chaos thicken the air. The urge to comfort her grows, and I feel a surge of relief flood through me when she pats the space beside her.
I walk over slowly and sit next to her, staying on top of the covers. The moment I settle into the space, she reaches for my hand, clasping it tightly. Her head is bowed so I can’t see her face, but her shoulders tremble slightly.
My heart pinches and with my free hand, I lift her chin to find a tear sliding down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb. “What’s wrong, ma cerise?” I murmur.
Her eyes glisten, their color deepened by tears, tugging at my heartstrings and making a puppet out of me. “I don’t know why, but I feel. . .” she trails off, her eyebrows bunching in frustration.
“You feel what?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She releases a trembling breath. “Embarrassed.”
When she pulls her face from my grasp to look away, I shake my head, voice firm as I say, “Andrea, no. Nothing about what happened is embarrassing or your fault. You did nothing wrong.”
“Everything is fuzzy and I hate it,” she whispers, staring down at her lap.
“I know.” I rest my head against the headboard, fighting the surge of emotions that bubble up.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “But I remember you—how you made me feel safe,” she says, and her words crack something open in me.
I reach out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing against her skin. She draws a sharp breath but doesn’t pull away. The way she looks at me, trusting and open, makes my chest tighten.
“I was afraid,” I whisper, a confession that surprises even me. It’s not something I admit often or ever say out loud, but for some reason, that doesn’t matter with her. It all comes pouring out anyway.
“I’m okay now.” Her voice is soft as she inches closer.
I lower my forehead to hers, my eyes pinching shut. I ground myself in her warmth, fighting back the thoughts of everything that could have happened had we not arrived in time. The fear I shrugged off in front of Carter now seems unbearable.
At her statement, I nod. She unclasps her hand from mine to press it to her chest, just below her collarbone. “See?” she says, her voice barely a whisper .
I nod, though I feel unsteady, drowning in memories and relief. She slides my hand over her heart, her touch an anchor in the storm of last night.
“Julian.” She says my name like it’s breaking her heart, which in return puts a crack in mine. I force my eyes to open and peer into hers.
When they clash, something alien warms me. The warmth settles into my bones and I’m here again; in this room with her and no one else. Her chest expands with breath and mine with recognition of something I thought to be long gone and dormant.
“There you are,” she says, smiling sadly as she presses her hand over my heart.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I nearly snap the only thread of control I have—the only thing stopping me from devouring her. “Andrea,” I warn with absolutely zero backbone to it, or maybe I’m making a plea for her to end my misery here and now.
“Julian,” she says, and this time I can feel the different meaning in its undertone. This time, it digs itself under my skin, setting something on fire I fear I’ll never be able to put out.
Her head tilts, and our noses brush, the breath between us thick with tension.
She inches closer, her lips grazing mine, and suddenly we’re breathing hard, her fingers clutching my shirt, my hand trailing up to her neck.
The room blurs as I trace the delicate line of her throat, wanting to close the distance entirely, to lose myself in her.
But she’s not thinking straight. She doesn’t want me like this.
Soon enough, she won’t want me at all. She’s too good for you , a voice says in the back of my mind.
With every ounce of control I have left, I turn my head, the words tumbling out painfully. “We can’t.” If I kiss her, I don’t want it to hurt and right now, it would. It already does.
Her head jerks back, and she releases me immediately, taking all her warmth with her. “Oh,” she breathes and when I look over at her, the hurt is blatant and raw on her face. “I’m sorry.”
I wince, remorse hitting me tenfold at what she must be thinking. “What I mean is that you don’t want to.”
Her brows furrow in confusion. “I don’t?”
I shake my head. She stares at me, her expression a mix of hurt and understanding, a storm of emotions she hasn’t voiced yet.
Before I can explain further, there’s a light knock at the door, and we both turn to find Carter poking his head inside the room.
“Can I steal her for a sec?” he asks, his eyes flicking between us.
I nod, lifting myself from the bed, not daring to look back at her.
When I leave, she doesn’t stop me, and I hate that her silence chokes me even if I’m to blame for it. My mother always told me to be wary of my heart and that I think with it too often.
It’s why there are pieces of myself that I ration away for keepsakes.
I’ve learned to control my emotions because it kept me safe growing up in a world that told me it didn’t want me.
Now, I fear it’s kept me away from more important things.
It’s never been easy for me to open up and pour out my soul.
All my life, I’ve searched for the edge of a cliff with a body of water beneath it to ease my fall.
The bitter reality I face is that I’ve loved many, and I’ve lost nearly all.
As a kid, I was not a fighter, but there were times when I had to if I wanted to survive—to live—to earn it.
When I was thrown into the system, it often felt like I was doing time for a crime I didn’t commit.
It was as if the pain I felt should not have belonged to me, but I had to bear it anyway.
The system twists your thoughts so deeply that you’re no longer a person, you’re a statistic.
I’ve spent most of my life among ghosts.
My mother became one right before my eyes.
My father, too. The eight-year-old version of myself is less foreign to me than most and sometimes it’s hard to pretend he doesn’t exist anymore; hard to forget that he was never chosen.
It’s difficult to remember the boy who tried so hard to be loved and cried himself to sleep when he failed.
It’s the brand of loneliness one can never outgrow. It’s the kind that makes me cling to those who can't return my love. It’s what I’ve always known.
There are pieces of him that rot inside of me but refuse to die. He sits in the corner of my mind, his shadow cast over my thoughts, reminding me that I wasn’t enough. That I am unworthy of love. That I am the reason it never stays. That I’m forever unseen—forever alone.
I’m forgotten among the numbers.
I. Am. Forgotten.
And I remember everything that’s ever touched my soul and bruised my skin. I am more turmoil and agony than any reminiscent tangent of hope. It’s why I paint with that little boy on my shoulder—to make the world remember that even the invisible have voices.
My art makes me infinite. It puts breath back into my lungs. It’s the only purpose I know. It’s the closest thing to unconditional love I’ve held—it’s the only thing that stays.