Then something crosses his mind as he stares at the place where our bodies touch, because his perfect brows pull together.
"What if I stay like this, Bay, what then, what about my life?"
"What would it change? Besides, they make incredible masks now, ones that mimic human faces and skin…" he says with that strange smirk. "I’m sure you know. You were tricked by the one I often used for my secret dealings with Ennio."
I just stare at him, and he gives a small, apologetic smile.
"Please, don’t worry about your looks. You didn’t turn away from me when I was sinking into the worst period of my life. When I didn’t believe anyone could ever want me. When I saw myself as a scrap of a person. You picked up that scrap. You made it whole again, and painted colors on it. You brought me back to life, Alex."
I stay silent, and that wetness gathers in my eyes again…
"You believed when I didn’t that the therapy would work. I doubted it quietly, you know? But you were right in keeping hope up. When I had already said goodbye to our relationship in my heart, you didn’t. Thank you, Alex. You fought for us."
Bay’s hand keeps drifting along my neck, then over my cheek. I draw a deep breath, because that touch awakens things in my revenant’s body that have nothing to do with the undead.
"I kept your diary, Bay, you know?" I whisper.
I look toward the nightstand with meaning. He arches a brow. I nod. Bay leans over and opens the top drawer. He pulls out his old pink diary, a shadow of surprise crossing his face.
"You kept it?"
He opens it slowly, page by page, all of them held together with clear tape, but aligned perfectly. I spent a lot of time making it flawless.
"Wow. You trulyput us backtogether, Alex," he whispers, looking quite amazed.
His fingers move over the pages.
"All these memories, so sweet. I chose to leave them behind, but you held on to them and…" He lifts his eyes to me. "You took care of them, preserved them…"
I sit up, my throat slightly constricted.
"You know… I know all your poems by heart, Bay, all the ones you wrote about me."
Bay gives an almost amused look.
"My teenage poems? There’s no way they’re worth anything, pure melodrama…"
"They are precious to me."
Then I recite:
"When I first looked
into your face,
you struck me
like a fiery blaze.
I went blind
lost in darkness,
searching for you
every day
becoming less
