Kieran swallowed the lump in his throat before running after Delilah toward their apartment.
Chapter Two
That night, long after the mugger was taken into custody, Kieran sat at his bedroom window watching as snow covered up the tracks on the sidewalk.Delilah had fawned over him for hours, stress baking until Kieran had had to politely inform her that fifty mini cupcakes were plenty when it came to eating his feelings.Briar, meanwhile, had paced the living room, muttering about how they should probably move to a safer neighborhood once she had a steady job.The whole time, Kieran had sat under a pile of blankets, staring at a wall despondently.
The only positive thing about the whole evening was that the girls were so caught up in the attack that they completely forgot to ask about Kieran’s date.
He let out a sigh, turning away from the window.He’d tell them in the morning.Luckily, he had the day off tomorrow, so at least he didn’t have to worry about putting on a fake smile at work while he took coffee orders.
Kieran stood.His room was still bare six months after he’d moved in.He’d gotten the smaller of the apartment’s two bedrooms, but it still had enough space for a bed, a desk, and a little reading nook in the corner by the window.His bed was a tangle of sheets and pillows, while his desk was covered in stacks of books and old cups of coffee.He shoved them out of the way as he sat in the creaky old wooden chair he’d snagged off the curb when they first moved in.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he might as well get something done in the meantime.Hopefully, something that would help him get his mind off the fact that this might well have been in the top ten of worst nights of his life thus far.
It’s just a break,Kieran reminded himself.He could change his mind and take me back.
The mere thought felt hollow.
Kieran sighed, then reached to where his coat hung over one of the bedposts and withdrew a small leather-bound journal from a pocket.It was his book of poems.He’d only started writing a few months ago when Delilah had asked him which form he wanted his magic to take.Up until then, he’d always envisioned himself doing something elegant and sophisticated, but he’d never actually picked anything.After a few miserable days trying to learn how to play the violin, and a few more smearing watercolors in a sketchbook with the skill of a drunk toddler, he’d elected to go with poetry.After all, being a tortured poet felt right: He could get his feelings out and cast spells all in one fell swoop.
Granted, he hadn’t quite gotten the wholespellcastingpart down yet—each time he’d tried to weave magic into the words,he’d been unable to focus enough to summon magic and write at the same time.He figured it would come in time as he honed his craft.Writing first, magic second.
Kieran cracked open the journal to the next clean page.It stared back at him as he took a pen from a jar at his side and chewed absently on the end.He decided to start with just writing down each snippet of thought that had been on repeat in his mind all evening.Everything Ash had said at the restaurant, the fear Kieran had felt when the attacker had pointed the knife at him, and ultimately the self-loathing that bubbled up from both.
Kieran Pelumbra: world’s worst witch and even worse boyfriend.
Tears welled.Kieran felt a strange sensation in his chest, almost like the twinge of something alive between his ribs.He tapped his pen against the page, staring at the words before him.
He flipped to a new page and began to write.
As soon as the lines were on the page, the sensation in his chest became stronger, engulfing him in warmth.It was strange but pleasant.The more Kieran wrote, the better he felt.He’d kept everything bottled up for so long that letting himself finallyfeelwas more freeing than he’d anticipated.While he’d written plenty of poems, something about this one was different.This one felt…alive.
He worked at it, picking out the knots in the words, for hours.For the first time since he moved in, his bedroom didn’t feel frigid.The air had an almost palpable electricity and warmth to it.Kieran’s hand moved quickly, slashing through words and rewriting new ones in their place.It was raw, and painful, but freeing.
This is how art is supposed to feel,he thought.
As the sky outside began to turn pink with the sunrise, Kieran sat back in his chair, staring down at the page before him.He finished it with a title, nodding to himself.
Better Off,he’d written,by Kieran Pelumbra.
You met me downtown on a snowy night,
But a blizzard could never be as icy cold
As what you said to me:
“I can’t be what you want.”
But how can you know
What my shattered heart yearns for?
Have you considered that what I want
Is a life where I deserve you?
Instead of this one, where I’m nothing
But a whisper on the frigid winter wind—
