Adrien
Present
Her fingers skim softly along my sides and chest.
My body is not taking it very calmly, but I keep my eyes closed while she’s carefully tracing her own drawings.
The idea of this happening actually crossed my mind last night. Maybe it could ground her somehow. Maybe the memories etched into my skin could calm the chaos for a moment. Give her something tangible to hold onto.
I always did it just because I liked all of it.
Her scribbles, the sting of the needle, the way pain turned into something permanent and beautiful.
And maybe, just maybe—I still haven’t fully made peace with this—because my dad was inked like this too, and my stupid little ass that’s still somewhere inside me, wanted to be like him.
Little did I know that it could mean so much one day.
And now, years later, she’s touching it and recognizes it, so it could be one of the things to pull her closer on her way back home. Every line she drew could be another stone laid into the path leading her back to me.
Her fingertips follow the big moth now, as if she’s drawing it all over again, spreading its wings across my chest.
That’s you, she says quietly in my memory. Always sneaking into my room when the light is on.
Yeah. Always.
Only now there’s no light that needs to be on. She’s the light I’ve followed my whole life. And nothing will ever change that. Even if hers isn’t really shining for me right now, it’s still blinking. Weak and unsteady like a loose bulb fighting not to go dark.
My eyes remain closed. I’m so terribly afraid that I’ll spook her if I even breathe wrong.
I know I shouldn’t be here anymore. I should’ve left before she woke up. That would’ve been the responsible choice and the sane one for sure. But I also didn’t even try to convince myself to do that. There’s no chance I could leave without at least trying to let her see me, or feel me.
I’m probably a completely self-centered and arrogant piece of a selfish ass, but I used to be the one who understood her chaos better than she did. And I can’t shake the belief that I still can. I just need to find the right approach.
Like a radio searching for the right frequency. She’s close, and I’m desperately adjusting the antenna, trying to catch her favorite song through the static. I can almost hear it, but one wrong move and the signal disappears.
So I stay still and keep my eyes closed, letting her tune herself to me instead, hoping my touch is familiar enough to break through the noise.
But then her fingers move lower as they trace other drawings, unhurriedly and curiously. The soft tip of her finger glides over my abs now and I’m unfortunately ticklish as fuck.
I’m screaming inside, clamping down on my entire existence, doing everything in my power to drown the urge to burst out laughing. It feels like some medieval torture method to be tickled and forced to endure it in silence.
Her fingers mindlessly drive into the hairline under my navel and my breath hitches as I suppress a giggle, because there’s nothing more ticklish than this.
She stops.
She noticed. The shift and tension.
Suddenly all I can feel is her sitting up on me in one smooth, decisive motion.
What?
I open my eyes at the exact second she presses the tip of something cold and sharp against my neck.
Oh.
Our gazes collide into each other.
At first, I swear she’s scared. Every inch of her is tense with terror. But it feels like it slowly leaves when she focuses on my eyes. Like something inside her is recalibrating.
She tilts her head slightly, as if she’s trying to recognize something or waiting for the glitch to come and for reality to betray itself.
I can’t help it—I take her in, only with my eyes so far. My gaze drags over her body appreciatively. She’s wearing only my oversized T-shirt and black underwear.
Nothing else.
And now that she’s straddling me, her legs holding me down tightly, it’s a bit too much. Way too much for my pathetic existence right now. I force my eyes back to her face before this setup becomes an actual problem for me.
A faint flush has returned to her cheeks.
Still pale, exhaustion and vitamin deficiency written all over that mesmerizing face, but she’s still so fucking beautiful it’s unbearable to look at without reaching for her.
And I swear there’s a subtle pink bloom creeping into her cheeks now, her lips are swollen too.
They always are in the morning when she wakes up.
It’s really… kissable.
The cold, sharp thing she’s holding to my neck presses deeper, as if her body is trying to fight me or scare me, maybe even kill me, while her face is saying something different. Her eyes are calmer now, more focused and locked on mine.
The tip bites into my skin, stinging sharply. Her pupils drop, tracking the thin line of blood as it slides down my throat.
This is actually much better than the tickling.
But it’s all consuming me too much. Her body on mine, her bare legs pressing into my waist, her warmth settled right on my lap. It’s unlocking memories that are absolutely not necessary right now. My body is remembering everything.
Oh God. No. It’s happening.
Fuck.
Not now. Not now. Not now. Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s about to slit my throat, and I’m actually getting hard.
God help me.
I would love to say something right now.
Something like sorry for that, please don’t mind me, or please forgive my inappropriate behavior but I’m only a human and also still very much in love with you.
But I don’t say anything, because I can’t risk messing this up by choosing the wrong word or the wrong tone, and having all of this vanish.
I just gulp, feeling the movement of my throat drag against the sharp blade. I’m not worried about the knife. I could get out of this in a single breath if I wanted to.
But her silence is killing me.
And I have no idea what to do.
Then something strange happens. There’s a weird switch.
Her body loosens on mine and the tension cautiously drains from her muscles. Her legs stop gripping me with fear and the arm holding the blade to my throat is no longer tight with anger. Her body literally melts against mine, the panic it carried dissolving inch by inch.
Her eyes flick down, just for a second, to where our groins are pressed together, then back up to my face.
She can definitely feel how inappropriately anticipated I am.
She swallows hard while I’m holding the guilty smirk in.
The fear visibly leaves her body but migrates straight into her mind. It’s as if her body remembers mine and gives in, recognizing the connection, reaching for it instinctively, while her mind starts screaming at her to panic or to pull away.
Her pupils dart across my face, lock back onto my eyes, then jump to the silver cross at my neck, searching desperately for a mistake.
She’s still holding the shard against my neck, but it’s not biting into my skin anymore. It’s just there as an insurance.
Then she suddenly looks up, staring at the ceiling.
I automatically follow her gaze.
She notices and looks back at me, but I keep my eyes on the ceiling.
Whatever she’s looking for up there, I’ll look for it too.
I let myself wander lazily across the surface for a moment, then return to her, shrugging and silently expressing—nothing there.
She looks genuinely confused now.
Like a puppy after a fake throw, still expecting the ball to be somewhere out there. It turns around, bewildered, then gives that look, that—where the fuck is my ball,—look. That’s literally how she looks at me right now.
And it’s thoroughly adorable.
I realize I’m smiling.
Her eyebrows furrow in a tentative, almost cute confusion. Her attention keeps dropping to my mouth, like she can’t quite believe I’m smiling. She looks me over, taking me in once more, checking that nothing has shifted, that I haven’t changed when she wasn’t looking.
Then her breathing evens out.
She’s letting this reality in, I can sense her lowering her guard, inch by inch. She checks the ceiling again, quicker this time, like a final precaution, just to be sure.
I move slowly, easing the hand tucked beneath my head out into view. Her body reacts instantly as she sharpens, grip tightening on the shard.
But she doesn’t attack, nor does she pull away. She just waits. So I keep moving at the same pace. I draw my hand out, palm up and open, and rest it beside me, mirroring the other one.
Then I wait. She waits as well.
We have a silent staring contest.
I’m still smiling, unable to stop.
After a moment of me staying completely still, she slips back into that in-between state, where she’s half accepting what’s in front of her while still not trusting it enough to believe it fully.
I should be thinking logically. I keep telling myself that. I should be running through facts, through what the psychiatrist said, through all the prescribed rules and steps.
But it’s really not easy.
Because who am I kidding, I’m not exactly sane myself. So instead of dissecting this moment, instead of trying to understand it from the outside, I just follow her lead. Go with her flow.
That’s what works for me and that’s what always worked for us. I don’t need to explain what’s happening right now and I don’t even want to.
Not everything has to make sense to be real. I never needed her to make sense to me.
She suddenly tilts her head, again, like the puppy, as if she’s trying to hear something.
The leaves rustle from outside? The birds chirping in the distance, signaling how early in the morning it is? Or my heartbeat? That one is definitely the loudest.
I try to listen too, straining to catch whatever sound she’s following. But then her eyelids fall closed, like she’s giving up on sight altogether and deciding to sharpen the other senses instead.
Okay.
I’m trying to follow, but I’m a little lost here. Because I can’t close my eyes. I can’t lose sight of her.