Interstitial
They looked afraid. I wanted to tell them it’d be okay. That I’d protect their secrets. That they had nothing to fear from
me and certainly nothing from him.
Now that he was dead.
One of them took the other’s hand, and I imagined how it must have felt. The warmth of skin against skin, the clasp that erases
all space, the bond that transforms separate individuals into one. We all crave it. It is innate. It is how we are meant to
live. It is how we thrive. It is how we survive.
It is how they would survive this.
I’d brought them together just when they were about to be split apart.
A twisted repeat of loss—theirs, mine, ours.
The universe might have been willing to let that happen, but I wasn’t.
Even though all of us were there, none of us really saw. Because our eyes are the most unreliable of narrators. I should know.